


Clue of Many Colors

by WritingIsMyGame



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: AbbieMillsIsWorkingIt, F/M, Ichabbie Weekend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyGame/pseuds/WritingIsMyGame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have wanted and wanted and wanted to write a story for Ichabbie Weekend, and I’ve tried to come up with something and have been so tired from kind of a mentally exhausting week at work that I haven’t been able to make myself do much of anything.</p>
<p>However!</p>
<p>I got sleep last night (yay!) and I am feeling relatively creative and perky, especially after seeing all the awesomeness that has been posted already, (*squeeeeeeing hard*) and I finally came up with an idea.  Hopefully, I can finish it all this weekend.  But in the meantime, here’s part 1.  Long live Ichabbie!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted and wanted and wanted to write a story for Ichabbie Weekend, and I’ve tried to come up with something and have been so tired from kind of a mentally exhausting week at work that I haven’t been able to make myself do much of anything.
> 
> However!
> 
> I got sleep last night (yay!) and I am feeling relatively creative and perky, especially after seeing all the awesomeness that has been posted already, (*squeeeeeeing hard*) and I finally came up with an idea. Hopefully, I can finish it all this weekend. But in the meantime, here’s part 1. Long live Ichabbie!

“Lieutenant…”

Persistent. That was Crane to a T. If he didn’t comprehend something, he kept plugging away until he understood.

It was one of the things that made him excellent at researching all the demons, horned devils and various undead creatures that routinely unearthed themselves and came after them on a regular basis.

Away from research, however, it was also one of the things that drove. her. up. a. wall.

Abbie sighed as she folded a pair of jeans into her suitcase. “What, Crane?”

Crane was leaning against the door frame to her bedroom, a frown on his too-handsome-for-his-own-damned-good face. “I don’t understand the purpose of this…this party. A party that celebrates murder? It seems rather…morbid.”

“This from the man who went digging through his own crypt in England for fun…”

“Scotland,” he corrected her with a sniff. “And that wasn’t for fun.”

“It’s just a party, Crane. A weekend away at a gorgeous old house upstate. No one’s really going to be murdered. It’s like Agatha Christie. They make up a little mystery and you go there and try to be the first team to solve it.” 

The frown wasn’t going away. Abbie sighed again as she folded a long-sleeved t-shirt to put in on top of the jeans. “It will be fun, Crane. Puzzles to solve. New people to meet. It’s a you kind of thing. Trust me.”

Abbie knew that what Crane really wanted was to have a weekend alone with her, watching movies and eating all kinds of bad food.

But it had been so long since she’d gone anywhere on a weekend that wasn’t tramping through the woods or getting bathed in slime as she and Crane fought off another supernatural attack. And it had taken them both weeks to heal physically and emotionally after Crane and she had finished off the second tribulation. She deserved a weekend away. _He_ deserved a weekend away. And she didn’t care if she had to drag him by those gorgeous locks of his. He was going.

“They will explain everything when we get there, Crane.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Tonight is formal. I told you that, right? Bring out the finery.”

Jenny had been trying to talk Crane into a tux for months now with no luck. Jenny, who could talk anyone into just about anything, could not convince Crane to fully adapt to the 21st century. His clothes were his security blanket–really truly one of the only links to his past life. Abbie had tried getting him into modern clothes early on in their partnership, but Crane had hated everything she’d made him try on and refused to wear any of it. 

And now? Abbie smiled a little wryly to herself. Now she couldn’t imagine him in anything else. The thought of him giving up all his 18th centuryness made her upset in a way she didn’t want to think about.

And that wasn’t the only way he’d changed her.

Abbie let out a breath. They needed to talk about that other change. The change where he stole the very air from her lungs when he smiled at her. The change where she resented every minute apart from him and every second he spent with anyone other than her. The change where she wanted him deep inside her–hard, fast and often.

Her heart thudded against her chest, and her hands shook a little as she folded her pajamas to tuck into the bag. 

She realized then that he hadn’t replied. She looked up at him, then, just in time to see that look on his face. The one that haunted her dreams at night. His gaze would be soft, and his mouth would be open–but just a little–as if he’d just gasped in delight at what he was seeing. His eyes would be focused on her, his impossibly blue gaze telegraphing all sorts of emotions she’d worked hard for so very long to ignore.

 _Not much longer_ , she silently promised him. _You won’t have to wait much longer, Crane._

His gaze refocused, then, and once again, Crane averted his gaze, a tinge of red on his cheeks. She knew he had suffered a lot, waiting on her. There never had been a good time to deal with the tangled web that bound them together. It wasn’t the Witness thing, not the partner and friend thing. Something more elemental, deep and a bit scary. Ichabod and Abbie–the man and the woman. The love that was the bedrock under it all. A love that was pulsing, hot, strong, maddening, and, she suspected, eternal.

He’d made up his mind long ago. She knew that. He’d never had to speak a word. She knew him.

She knew she was the stubborn hold out. 

She hadn’t been ready. It had been easier to sacrifice herself for the world than deal with what she had with Crane. She was convinced that the second tribulation hadn’t truly been about Pandora and her god boyfriend at all, but a tribulation of pulling the witnesses apart from each other. His nine-month walkabout and his floundering attempts with Zoe, her pulling toward Danny and the FBI and trying to leave witnessing behind–both in the I-want-a-normal-life way and in the let-me-sacrifice-myself-for-the-world way…

The two of them emotionally destroying each other.

Moloch would have been delighted.

But they’d survived that tribulation. At the end, Crane had brought her home.

And she’d known from that moment on that the remaining five tribulations would have them united. In every damned way possible.

She just had to get her stubborn ass man to their weekend so she could get the ball rolling.

“Finery? Crane?” Abbie finally said, gesturing at him.

Crane scowled at her but finally gave a sigh of defeat. “All right. Fine.” He shook one of his long fingers in her direction. “But if you expect me to keep quiet with no commentary about all the ridiculousness of this party all weekend long…”

“Comment to your heart’s content, Crane,” she said as she calmly continued packing her suitcase. “You in all your you-ness is exactly what I want this weekend.”

Crane’s mouth dropped open a little at her words, and she could tell his mind was furiously churning, trying to figure out exactly what she meant by what she’d said.

And just because she loved to see him flustered, Abbie pulled open another drawer of her dresser and pulled out one of her sexiest bra and panties pairs–red with a black lace overlay and little black bows in the center of the bra and on the sides of the panties.

She held them up and then ever so slowly folded them to put in her suitcase. Her eyebrow slid up as she gave him another look.

Crane swallowed. Hard.

And without another word, he turned on his heel and she could hear him hurrying down the hallway toward his room.

Abbie smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you...I am a bit like Ichabod Crane, in that I put in 50 words, where one would do. *grin* And writing short stories is just something I never do.
> 
> So I won’t finish this this weekend, but I will keep working on it and posting!
> 
> Long live Ichabbie! :)

Ichabod Crane wasn’t certain what the fascination was with America and old English “go out to the country” weekends.

He’d been to many weekends in the country back in his day. He remembered in vivid detail his father’s boisterous friends who would always drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much and squeeze the maids’ asses after doing all of the same.

His mother had insisted he put in appearances at these parties, but most of the time, he would escape to the stables with some old musty book from his father’s study, which probably hadn’t been opened from the time it was purchased.

He frowned at the memory. What once had been a happy escape place for him in his mind was now tainted. It stung, still, what that god had said about him and his books and the stables. 

He glanced at Abbie as she pulled her car into one of the spaces in the lot around the monstrous old house. He hadn’t told her what the god had said back then--the way he’d been searched, found wanting, and totally dismissed. It was hard enough trying to scramble together some sort of reason for Abbie to continue their partnership at all, the damned Witness thing aside, without giving more fuel for the idea that she’d be better off without him.

Everything he wanted to be as a boy--someone who did things and made a difference in the world--seemed so distant and far away.

When he’d joined the colonial cause, he’d thought that he’d had it made. Yes, there were repercussions to his choice. The ruthless cutting of ties to his past life: his father’s scorn, his brothers’ silence, a mother he’d never gotten to see again, breaking his parents’ promise to Mary ...but he had had a mission, a purpose. He was working with Washington, Jefferson and Franklin--some of the greatest minds of their time. He had thought he had love and happiness with Katrina. Everything he’d ever wanted was there for the taking.

And then...in the swing of the Hessian’s axe, it was gone. Everything he knew. Everything he was. Three years of living in the 21st century and it had torn through to his very center, and destroyed everything that had made him Ichabod Crane.

It was natural that he would cling to Abbie--the one sane, safe harbor in the unrelenting hellstorm that was his life. Natural that he would find any way to keep her at his side, helping him navigate in a sea he was perilously lost in. And more than just being his guide, she had become his partner, his cohort and his friend. 

But none of that--not from the witnessing with a capital W bond down to their easy camaraderie--could explain the rest.

It couldn’t explain the deep well of grief at the thought of having to take the poison, die and leave her behind nor the mind-blinding panic to do anything at all to get her back from purgatory. He’d fought and fought so _hard_ to deny it all. Fought as hard as he’d fought anything in his life. And yet the tendrils of her laughter, the sass that she gave him, her patience, her courage amidst the terror, and her unrelenting, fierce faith in him had bound him ever so much more strongly than the vines that Henry had trapped him with within his coffin underground.

His last choice had been no choice at all. There had been nothing but pure, blind terror mixed with deadly resolution. Katrina ending Abbie’s life was not to be endured. Her life for Abbie’s was never a contest. Abbie was then--and ever after would be--his first and only choice.

And then, his true suffering had begun.

Not knowing where they went from there, sick with self-loathing over how he’d failed in everything: being a son, a husband, a father, a soldier--even a witness in the mission they’d been charged by God Himself to do. Terrified of telling her the depth of feelings he had for her that he’d only begun to understand himself, he’d run. Run from witnessing, run from her, run from himself.

And at the end of it all, he found that his walkabout was truly only a walk in a circle--his only goal to find his way back to her again. Struggling with the knowledge that he had nothing at all to offer her--nothing but a broken, hurting man who had only his tattered, damaged heart to give.

The second tribulation had been one batter against that heart after another. Abbie had moved on without him--both in her career and in her love life. The trust and faith he’d always seen in her was veiled in distance and reserve. Every step he tried to make toward her was a step she’d move away. Nothing seemed to help. Nothing seemed to work.

Having her put the faith she’d once had in him into the damned symbol of Thura--nearly letting him die because of her devotion to it--it had nearly killed him. And not in just a bodily sort of way. It was as if he were standing in the ruins of his life all over again, thrust into a world he didn’t understand and didn’t know how to cope with.

And now, here they were again. He’d brought her back from hell itself and they were back in a period of waiting again. Weeks had gone by. Weeks trying to heal and to figure out who they were all over again.

The thought of five more tribulations was nearly enough to have him grasping for the Masons’ poison. He’d thought about that poison more than once when Abbie had been gone. If she were dead, the only place for him was death, too.

He couldn’t do it without Abbie. Without her, he was nothing.

He had brooded through the whole car ride, using the excuse of the ridiculous party to pretend he was sulking instead.

But Abbie knew him better than anyone else did. And she knew the difference between his petulant sulk and a soul-bruised brood. She’d let him be and hadn’t spoken on the drive up there. However, she had slowly worked in other ways to bring him around--as she always did.

The music she’d played on the radio had been soft, soulful jazz. Music that she played that put a little smile on her face and a hum in her beautiful voice.

Instead of the main highway, Abbie had purposely chosen the backwoods routes. Routes full of natural, gorgeous beauty. New York’s trees had exploded into vivid oranges, yellows, reds and purples, peppering the Catskill Mountains with breathtaking splashes of color. The October air had a hint of autumn crispness in it, and the sun was setting, spreading streaks of crimson across the sky.

It was hard to stay truly in despair with such a vista, cocooned in 21st century modern car comfort with his favorite person in the world.

Ichabod slanted a blue-eyed look at his friend, his partner, and the person he loved more than any other.

She wanted time away--time to get out and have fun. She could have chosen any other human being to accompany her, and yet, she’d chosen him. That had to mean something, yes?

_...and there was the matter of those heart-attack-inducing undergarments._

Abbie turned off the engine and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are we going inside or what, Crane?” She drummed her slender fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m not gettin’ any younger.”

It was there. Ever so briefly. That ever-elusive spark of mischief. Something he happily made himself an idiot again and again to try to get from her.

And, as always, there was no help for it. His eyebrow winged up in response. “An extra few minutes in the motor vehicle are a blink of the eye to someone who’s lived as long as I have, Lieutenant.” He reached over for the door handle and pushed open the door. “Come back to me and speak of age when you’ve at least reached one hundred and fifty.”

He got out of the car, unable to keep the smile from curving his lips. He headed around to the back of the car to obtain their luggage, waiting for Abbie’s retort, which, as usual, was swift in arriving.

“Does it count if you’re sleeping for 235 of those years, Rip Van Winkle?”

He gave her a wry look. “I’d hardly call being put under a supernatural spell and being buried underground ‘sleeping’, but you believe as you like, Lieutenant.”

Abbie grinned at him. “So, what? Not sleeping but more of an undead thing?”

Ichabod rolled his eyes at her. “If you want to be literal, Lieutenant, we’re all undead--those of us walking around and breathing and the like, that is. If you take the literal meaning of the word: un--the prefix meaning not--and dead--the state of not being alive.”

“Well, Crane, if I had to be partners with an undead captain of Washington’s Revolutionary army, I’m glad that captain was you.” Abbie looked up at him, her brown eyes sparkling, happy and, for once, free of anything shutting him out.

His heart stuttered a bit as he gazed down at her. His face softened, and his voice was just a tinge hoarse as he replied, “Two hundred and thirty-five years buried underground, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant I would get to be partners with you, Grace Abigail Mills.”

The smile on her face slowly slipped away, and he could see tears glisten in her eyes. She didn’t respond. It wasn’t her way.

But as they walked toward the large, rambling Victorian house, she threaded her hand through his, squeezing it hard.

And it was glorious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, can we have another Ichabbie weekend next weekend? Pretty please? *big, cheesy smile* 
> 
> @like-bunnies - your idea was so very AWESOME. Just like you. *hugs*
> 
> Long live Ichabbie! And…Free Timothy! :)

She was a little giddy. She’d admit that.

Crane and his declarations and his heart eyes did something good to her insides.

And threading her fingers through his? Also good. _Very_ good.

A little frown etched between her eyebrows for a moment. Maybe a bit _too_ good. Those callouses on his hands from all the weaponry he held on a regular basis were rubbing against hers and sending little sparks down her spine, making her think of other things that could be rubbing against things.

_Stop that._

They weren’t anywhere close to being ready to take care of those sorts of problems yet. Abbie sighed internally. _Soon, Mills. Very soon._

With a reluctance she could almost feel, she squeezed his hand again and released it before turning her attention to the room they’d just entered.

Abbie had a feeling of going back in time. Not quite as far as Crane’s time, of course, but back to the era of the Victorians. The dark wood on the walls, the intricately patterned wallpaper and the vivid red of the Turkish carpet that lay on the gleaming hardwood floors. She half expected a maid with a white cap to come out of the door on the far side of the room.

Crane was looking around with a skeptical eye, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t comment, though, which meant she probably should get them registered before he had a chance to find something to rant about.

He had promised her he would.

One side of the entry way had been converted to a small hotel front desk. It looked very authentic, complete with the old-fashioned bell to ring for a bellman and the cubbyholes behind the person standing at the desk for mail. A board with several antique keys with room numbers attached to them also hung there.

She tapped him on the arm, giving him a smile. “This is amazing, isn’t it?”

Crane merely gave her another of his skeptical looks. “If you like that sort of thing,” he said. “It’s very...dark in here.”

“That was the Victorian age, Crane. Dark colors, dark wood...they just liked it dark.”

An eyebrow winged up at that, and the beginnings of a smirk started to curve his lips upward.

She shook a finger at him. “Do not start.” Abbie turned on her heel, ignoring his immediate protest, and headed toward the man behind the desk. He was elegantly attired, with a 19th century replica suit, and a huge, swirling mustache that was a wonder to behold.

Crane, who had quickly stridden over to stand behind her, also seemed impressed by the man’s facial hair. She surreptitiously poked him and gave him a look. He telegraphed back a look of his own but remained quiet.

She then smiled at the man behind the desk. “Hello.”

“Good evening,” the man said, giving them a wide smile which made the edges of his mustache move upward, twitching a little. She could feel Crane struggling not to comment. It was all she could do not to let her smile creep across her face. “How may I help you?” he asked.

“We’re here for the mystery weekend,” she said. “Abigail Mills?”

The man frowned a little at her. “Mystery...weekend? I’m not certain as to what you are referring.” He opened the register and ran his finger down until he came across her name, written in an old, elegant scrawl. “Ah, here you are, Miss Mills. You have the Washington suite. Two rooms with a communal bath, as you requested.”

Crane’s eyebrows shot up at that, but Abbie ignored him. She leaned forward, a question in her voice. “I don’t understand. This is the right weekend, isn’t it?” She gestured toward the register. “Did I reserve the wrong weekend?”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a mysterious weekend.” He turned around and took two keys off the board behind him. “This one is for the Anthony Wayne room, named for General Anthony Wayne, one of Washington’s most trusted generals.”

Abbie glanced quickly at Crane, who had stiffened a little at the name. _Please dear_ Lord. _I know what I said, but please._

She took the key and then the man said in a bright voice, “And this one is for the Ichabod Crane room.”

Both of them stared at the man in disbelief.

“The, uh, what now?” Abbie demanded.

“You haven’t heard of Ichabod Crane, then?” The man gave her a knowing look. “The rumor is that he was one of Washington’s top spies. Very promising soldier. Made it to the rank of Captain before he was killed in battle outside of Sleepy Hollow.”

Abbie took the key dumbly, staring at him.

“The owner of the hotel has a particular interest in American Revolutionary War history, especially that which relates to New York.” He smiled. “Most of the rooms are named after important figures in New York Revolutionary War history.” He spread his hands out in front of him. “Captain Crane isn’t well known. Most of his missions were state secrets, I believe, so there isn’t much written down about him, but the owner found a few fascinating letters mentioning the man in an auction of items. And he’s been intrigued ever since.”

“I see,” she choked out.

He looked around him, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that his two patrons appeared a bit shell-shocked. “I think that is everything.” He gestured to the large staircase behind them. “The Washington Suite is up the stairs and at the end of the hall. Both rooms overlook the veranda and the river below. I hope your stay will be satisfactory.”

Before they could move away, however, he raised a finger. “Oh! I forgot.” He reached into one of the larger cubbyholes behind him and pulled out two large envelopes. “These were left for you earlier this morning.” He smiled. “Enjoy your stay.”

In the little while that they’d been standing in front of the desk, two other couples had entered the hall, talking among themselves. Abbie stuffed the envelopes and keys into her bag and then grabbed Crane’s arm, steering him toward the stairs.

Abbie had to practically drag Crane up the stairs. The look on his face indicated that she had very little time before he would blow into a tirade to end all tirades.

By the time they’d reached the end of the hallway, his hands were clenching and unclenching with such speed that she thought he might have a stroke right there. She pulled out the two keys, fumbling with them, trying first one and then the other before the door finally swung open. 

She shoved Crane inside the room and closed the door. They both dropped their bags on the floor and stared at each other before turning to stare in unison at the wall.

On the wall was a portrait. It could have been a photograph. The detail was amazingly accurate.

Captain Ichabod Crane in all of his 18th century glory.

“Bloody hell,” the 21st century version of the man said. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

_Bloody fucking hell, indeed._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabbie Weekend is over (but I hear tell that we’re going to have another one in October over NYCC weekend? Delicious. *grin*), but I am nowhere near done with this story, so I will keep chugging along with it. :) Thank you for all the nice comments on it. You do a little writer’s heart good. *hugs*

Ichabod stared at the portrait of himself. It was definitely him. Full of all the piss and vinegar of being the younger son of an earl and a captain in George Washington’s army. At the height of what he thought was the best, most exciting part of his life.

Abbie had met that version of him. She hadn’t talked about her trip back to 1781 much, other than to laugh about Franklin and to say that, when push came to shove, his other self hadn’t let her down.

His gaze slid to the portrait again. He wondered, sometimes, what that man had said to Abbie. How he’d treated her. Did she prefer that version of Ichabod Crane to the marred, flawed one she had as a partner now?

He’d been a little afraid to ask.

His hands twitched at the thought, and suddenly, an overwhelming sense of the unfairness of it all just washed over him. The long string of curses started only in his thoughts, but it finally dawned on him that he was actually saying them aloud as he noticed Abbie’s eyebrows climbing higher and higher toward her hair.

He quickly shut his mouth, giving Abbie an apologetic look. “My abject apologies, Lieutenant. I...”

“Don’t worry about it, Crane,” she said with a gesture toward the painting. “That was pretty much my reaction, too.” She raised an eyebrow then, her lips curving up into a smile. “Although I think ‘bum fodder’ might not be how I'd express it...”

Ichabod squeezed his eyes shut. “Dear God.”

“Learning new words is always a good thing, right?” she asked as she crossed over to him and laid a hand on his arm. 

He opened one eye, giving her a sour look. “My mother would be appalled.”

“Well, what your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She grinned at him. “And now I have something new to teach Jenny.”

“Lord preserve us,” he muttered.

Her grin grew a little wider but then slowly vanished as she turned her own gaze back at the painting. She hesitated a moment before she gestured again at the portrait. “Did you pose for that?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Damn. Well, then, how did they get such a good likeness?” she asked. “I mean, it’s scary good.”

He frowned. “You...like it, then?”

Abbie obviously sensed something off in his tone, because she shifted her gaze back to him, and her face gentled. “It just looks a lot like you. Then.”

His frown didn’t disappear as he looked at the painting again. If he were to be honest, then, yes. It did look like him. His favorite blue coat. The black, broad-brimmed hat he often wore. His sword at his side.

He felt Abbie’s gaze on him and reluctantly turned to meet it. She hesitated a moment before she asked, “Do you miss it? That time?”

He spent a long time looking at the portrait, his mind sifting through his memories of the past. Instead of a straight answer, he opted for levity. “I miss the sword a little.”

His comment apparently was unexpected, because Abbie let out a surprised laugh. “Really, Crane? That’s all you miss? The sword?”

Ichabod smiled then, giving a little shrug of his shoulders. “All right, yes. There are things I miss. Obviously, I miss those people whom I loved: my family, my friends...” He sighed. “But mostly, it’s little things. Small things that I don’t even think about until something reminds me of the way it once was. A memory of a party. The color of a dress. The taste of one of Katrina’s meals.” He clasped his hands together and looked down. “I don’t dwell on it too much,” he said quietly. “I try not to. But just once in a while, it’s there. Right in front of me where I can’t escape it.”

At that, Ichabod looked up, directly at his old self, his still healing scars aching at the sight of it. “Like that bloody painting.”

Abbie didn’t say anything for a long while. She occasionally looked at the portrait and then back at him. She walked around the room once,picking up knickknacks and replacing them, seeming almost as fidgety and edgy as he himself felt.

Finally, she inhaled and turned her gaze back toward him, as if she’d made up her mind about something. And then, she began to speak.

“You asked me about that painting. If I liked it.” She tilted her head, thoughts that he couldn’t decipher fluttering across her face. “It’s you, for sure, but at the same time...it’s not.”

He frowned, not quite understanding her meaning.

“It makes me feel like I did back then. Back in 1781.” She exhaled and clenched her hands together before she continued. “You helped me back then. You did. You were a gentleman, you treated me with dignity, and even though the whole thing was a crazy mess that no one sane would dip his toes into, you believed in me. And I’ll always be grateful to that version of you for that.” She paused a moment, looking down at the floor before she brought her gaze up to meet his. “But he wasn’t my man.”

Ichabod stared at her, his twitching hands stilling at his side. “Lieutenant,” he said, his voice rough-sounding to his ears. “Are you...are you saying...”

“That man, he’s the long-ago portrait. You are the movie with laughter and love and adventure and _life_.” She reached forward and grabbed one of his hands in hers. “There is no contest.”

He closed his eyes, his war-torn heart leaping at her words. Ichabod tightened his hand around hers and swallowed before he whispered, “Oh, _Lieutenant_.”

Her hand caressed his face, and it was heaven. His eyes fluttered open, desperate to behold her.

Her gaze was luminous as she looked at him, and doubts about himself seemed to have no place when she regarded him that way. His heart thudded against his chest as she threaded her hand through his hair and tugged him downward.

It was the briefest, softest, mere brush of her lips against his, but he felt the sensation down to his very essence. It not only just soothed the long-held pain inside, but it burned through it, purifying and cleansing as it went, changing his heartache to the ache of desire.

“My man,” she murmured as she lowered her hand to pat her chest, her eyes intent on his. “Here.”

He blinked rapidly against the sudden tears in his eyes. Tears that for once were for utter, amazing joy. Ichabod grabbed her hand and placed it against his chest, right against the scar that had brought him to her. “And here.”

The smile that blossomed across her face was breathtaking to behold. She inhaled, pressed her hand into his chest ever so briefly as if to confirm her claim on the heart that beat underneath, and then laughed, wiping away a tear from her eye. She looked upward, her face beautiful in its happiness, and then brought her gaze down to his again. Abbie beamed at him and said, “Now that that’s settled, Crane, let’s find out who the hell got us here this weekend, and what your 18th century badass self is doing on the wall.”

He grinned in response, pulling her into his arms for a tight squeeze, before he released her with an emphatic, “Indeed.”


	5. Chapter 5

If she'd known that telling Crane about what she felt was going to make her feel _this_ good, she'd have done it months ago.

That sense of giddiness she'd felt when she first had entered the hotel with Crane was back again. And it appeared that this time Crane was a little giddy himself.

He'd been depressed and pretty withdrawn for quite some time, even as he'd tried to keep her spirits up. It had been so hard for her to do almost anything herself after the events of the past few months that she hadn't been able to concentrate on Crane to try to help him.

But the difference in his demeanor and attitude from the time they'd been driving together in the car and now was immense. 

Already, Crane was inspecting the portrait of himself with more enthusiasm and interest. It was, after all, a puzzle. And Crane loved solving puzzles. Perhaps her mystery weekend wouldn't be such a bust after all.

The thought of the mystery weekend popped into her head, and the weird way the man at the front desk had acted. "Oooh! Crane. I forgot about those packets that guy gave us at the front desk." She smirked at him as she crossed the room, heading toward where she and Crane had dumped their bags. "Can you believe the mustache on that guy?"

"I've seen photographs of the Victorians. They did like their mustaches."

"No big curly-q mustaches in your day?" she teased as she pulled the large envelopes out of her bag.

Crane hesitated as he ran his hand absentmindedly over his chin. "Being clean shaven was much more popular in my era."

"And look at you. Facial hair all over the place." Abbie's eyes twinkled at him. "Ichabod Crane. Rebel with a beard."

He snorted. "More like a very young-looking face," he said wryly. "No one takes you seriously as a young man desperate to take on the world when you look like you're still in short pants."

Abbie's lips curved into a smile. "Well, I like the beard. It suits you." She walked over to him, looking up at him before she patted his cheek. "Although I must admit I'm curious now to see what you look like without it."

He gave her a sour look. "A curiosity unlikely ever to be sated."

"You never can tell." She winked at him. "I'm awfully good at talking you into things."

"And that, Lieutenant, is the understatement of the century." In evident eagerness to change the subject, Crane reached for the packets she held. "What is that that the man downstairs gave you?"

Abbie glanced down at them, almost having forgotten she was holding them. Briefly, she scanned the note tacked to the outside of the envelope. "Well, this explains some of it." She handed Crane one of the packets. "These are for the mystery weekend. Looks like the staff is supposed to pretend it's really the turn of the century or something. They don't help us with the mystery and pretend to know nothing about it when asked."

Crane gave her a skeptical look. "What, pray tell, is the point of scheduling a mystery weekend at a hotel where the front desk clerk pretends to have no idea of why the guests are there? What if they call the hotel with questions?"

"Don't ask me!" Abbie said with a shrug. "I have no idea why any of this is happening." She gestured with her packet toward his portrait on the wall. "And being placed in the Ichabod Crane room...how the hell did the guy look at you and say all that about you with a straight face? If I worked here and there was an Ichabod Crane room with a huge ass portrait of the man in it, and then his twin--wearing Colonial clothes, no less--checks in at the front desk, I'd damn well say something."

"Perhaps he's never seen the portrait?" Crane said, his blue eyes twinkling. "Or maybe he doesn't see the resemblance."

Abbie rolled her eyes at that. "I've met both versions of you. And take my word for it. It's a freakin' photograph." She shook her head. "It's all weird. Very weird. I don't like it."

"Neither do I, Lieutenant." He spread his hands in front of him. "But I expect that we will endeavor to uncover what truly is happening here." He smiled. "Perhaps it is all part of the mystery weekend."

"Do you believe that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"No," he admitted, "but I'm willing to be persuaded. I'd _like_ to be persuaded." He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. "Because then I wouldn't think that we were starting on tribulation number three."

Abbie groaned. "Please don't go there, Crane. I refuse." 

He held up his hands in surrender. "Like I said, I'm most willing to be persuaded, Lieutenant."

"Why don't we just start with the mystery weekend and see what these packets are about first? Maybe there's something about the portrait in them."

"A wise choice, Lieutenant."

Abbie walked over to the king-sized bed that faced Crane's portrait and sat down. She opened up her envelope and spread out its contents on the duvet. A red folder indicating the name of Miss Titian was tucked inside of the envelope and had in it several sheets of paper, including a schedule of events, Miss Titian's history and a description of the scenario in which they'd been invited into.

Crane, in the meanwhile, had joined her, emptying out his envelope on the bed. His folder was yellow with the name of Captain Aureate on its cover. The inside of the folder was very similar to Abbie's, just with his particular details.

"Captain Aureate?" she asked. "That's a rather interesting name. Did they make that up?"

Crane shook his head. "It's a word that means made of or is the color of gold."

Abbie stilled for a moment, glancing at his folder and then back at hers. And then she let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "And Titian. That's the guy who liked to paint redheads, right?"

Crane frowned at her. "I'm missing something here."

She tapped her folder and then his. "Miss Scarlet. Colonel Mustard."

He continued to frown, clearly not understanding.

"It's a famous board game, Crane. Six people suspected of murder. Each one is named after a color. Miss Scarlet, Colonel Mustard, Mr. Green, Mrs. Peacock, Mrs. White and Professor Plum." She grinned at him. "Apparently, we've stepped into the supernatural version of Clue."

Crane sighed. "I thought we agreed to pretend it wasn't going to be a supernatural weekend."

"Well, it may not be a supernatural weekend, but there's definitely something going on that has to do with us, Crane."

He frowned again. "Why do you say that?"

She tapped her folder again. "Miss Titian's first name is Grace."


	6. Chapter 6

Abbie was saying a lot of things. He was certain of it. And he'd tried to make intelligent responses. Although, after that incident with the swearing, he wasn't quite certain that he'd succeeded.

But Ichabod's brain really wasn't into it.

Certainly, he'd have to come down off of the delirious mountain peak he was on at some point. After all, there was something very strange going on in the hotel that he and Abbie needed to investigate.

But right now? Abbie had given him what he'd wanted in the most desperate, deep place inside of himself. And for once, everything was settled into place. The nervous agitation that ever lay under the surface of his skin--the constant feeling of wrongness and being out of synchronization with all that was around him--was gone. Everything in that moment of time was perfection.

And all he wanted was a few moments to run the words she'd said, the feelings she'd evoked in him, and the taste of her lips against him over in his mind, transferring it into his eidetic memory so that it solidified. He wanted it etched into his brain like the very nerve fibers themselves. He wanted to forever know what it felt like when his very dearest wish had been granted.

But the lieutenant was ever pragmatic. She was never prone to the flights of fancy that he was. He was pretty certain that she'd never spent hours in a stable reading of lives she'd wished she'd lived herself. Abbie was too busy doing to worry about dreaming.

The dreamer and the doer. He smiled a little to himself. Perhaps God knew exactly what He'd been doing when He paired the two of them as His witnesses. Ichabod dove into the world of ideas to come up with a way forward. Abbie made the plan happen.

"You're smiling," Abbie said, bringing him out of his mental stupor. He turned his attention to her reluctantly, because he didn't want to deal with any sort of force against them at that moment. He wanted to cocoon the two of them away from the rest of the world.

"I might be," he allowed.

"Despite the possibility of another tribulation rearing its ugly head?" She sidled a little closer to him, peering up at him through her lashes, a smile curving her lips.

"Even so."

"I must admit," she said huskily as she gazed up at him. "I would much rather stay here, holed up in this room with you all weekend."

Ichabod swallowed at that. "As would I, Lieutenant."

Abbie sighed then and patted his chest before pulling herself away again. "But we don't have that luxury, Crane."

_So damnably frustrating!_ Ichabod grabbed her hand, preventing her retreat. "Not even a small portion of the weekend? We cannot afford ourselves even the tiniest luxury? After all that we have been through?"

Abbie's face softened as she looked at him, and she squeezed the hand that was wrapped around hers. "No one said we couldn't try."

A slow smile lit up his face. He couldn't help it. Abbie, whose first focus was _always_ their mission, had conceded him that much. "This day continues to bear gifts," he said, his smile turning into a bit of a mischievous smirk.

She laughed at that, squeezing his hand again before she released it. "You'd better pray hard that we don't have a day like we did the last time you said that." Abbie shook her head. "The last thing we need is your buddy showing up here."

"He's no longer my friend," he protested.

"Still," she said, giving him a reproving look. "I could happily live the rest of my life without seeing his ugly mug again."

Ichabod raised an eyebrow. "Literally speaking, Lieutenant..."

"Do not say it."

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling, and both of them began to chuckle. 

"Damn it, Crane, you know what I meant." She rolled her eyes before she walked across the room to pick up her fallen bag. "Changing the subject..."

"Oh? Were we doing that?" he asked, an innocent expression on his face.

"Changing the _subject_..." Abbie ignored him as she walked over to the bed and grabbed her packet. "The event calendar said there'll be cocktails down in the lounge at seven followed by dinner at eight." She waved the folder at him. "Evening dress."

"I'll endeavor to look presentable," he said dryly.

She grinned at him. "So will I." She walked across the room and had her hand on the doorknob to the connected room to the one in which they were standing, when she frowned and looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you creeped out about staying in here with him?" Abbie gestured with her packet at the portrait on the wall. "You can always have the...uh...who was it again?"

A sour expression began to cross his face. "Anthony Wayne."

"Yeah, right. The Anthony Wayne room."

"No, thank you."

Her eyebrow climbed up in response to the tone in his voice. "Not one of your founding father buddies, then, this Wayne guy?"

"Hardly," he bit out.

Abbie raised her gaze heavenward. "God, Crane. Was there no one in Colonial America who you had a neutral opinion about?" 

"I see no point in being lukewarm about anything, Lieutenant." He shrugged. "I am a passionate man."

"I'll bet you are," she muttered as she turned back toward the door.

His lips quirked up. His hearing was just fine. He'd heard every word she said. But he still couldn't resist asking innocently, "Excuse me?"

Instead of prevaricating, as he'd expected her to do, Abbie turned with a scowl on her face and then stomped over to where he was. She glared up at him, stood on tiptoe and pulled his face down to hers, giving him a brief, powerful, shocking-him-to-his-toes kiss. When she broke off the kiss, his heart was galloping in his chest, and the air was escaping his lungs in harsh, guttural breaths. "You damn well heard me, you arrogant ass."

Ichabod stared at her a moment before the smirk to end all smirks crossed his face.

"Oh, yeah. Smirk now, Crane." Her eyes narrowed as they stared into his. "You just wait until you see the dress I packed. You just wait."

His eyes gleamed. "I await its viewing with bated breath, Lieutenant."

Abbie stared at him for a moment before grabbing his face and kissing him again. Then, she stomped off across the room, entering the adjoining bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

God's wounds, he loved every fiery inch of her.

Ichabod whistled to himself as he tugged off his boots and pulled his kit out of his bag and laid it on the bed. He had no idea what to expect of the night that lay ahead, but he was determined to enjoy every second of it.

Every bloody second.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit since I posted! My job taxes my little grey cells. In a good way, but it taxes them. So they are kind of little grey cell mush by the end of the day.
> 
> And I was trying to tell this chapter from the wrong POV to start out with. Thus, I was getting nowhere. 
> 
> I think I am back on track. At least for now. LOL!
> 
> Thanks for the lovely comments and kudos. You all make a girl very happy. *hugs*

They'd all arrived. Finally. 

He hoped and prayed that two of them would be the Witnesses he'd been searching for for what seemed to be an eternity.

His hair had long since gone to silver. It had turned that way over a year's time when he'd only been one and twenty. It was the way of his kind. He'd been expecting it.

She'd teased him about it. Laughing about how distinguished her man was. How he was handsome and wise and clever...her very own silver fox.

The man's face saddened as he stared unseeing toward the large portrait on the wall. He'd painted that dimple in her cheek, the dimple that deepened when she gave him that mysterious smile that always spoke to him of dark nights, muted laughter, and passionate romps in the bedroom with whispered "I love you"s. It hurt, still, to think of her.

All his wisdom and knowledge, and he had been powerless to save her.

So brave. So reckless. Such heart in his woman. The heart of a warrior.

And he was her Cassandra. Ever prophesying doom and destruction, but being cursed with not being believed. No matter how much he'd wanted to, he hadn't been able to save her.

Restless, the man let his eyes wander around the elegant room in which he sat. Remnants of the war whispered all around him. His father's musket. His grandfather's uniform. His daughter's skirt with its hidden pockets. Each piece handled and owned by one of his kind. Whispering their condemnation. He'd outlasted them all. Some said it was his punishment. Punishment for marrying outside his people. Giving his heirs the curse of partial sight. Seeing but not understanding. Haunted by demons they had no power to withstand.

It didn't matter one whit to him--as long as he'd had her. He'd had twenty-two years with her. Playing together as children, teasing each other as teenagers, and finding that falling in love had been as natural as breathing. They were as two acorns, dropped side by side, growing into oak trees, whose roots were so tangled together as they grew, that they could no more tell whether they were two trees or one. 

His eyes flicked over to the playing cards he had splayed out on the desk in front of him. Six people. He'd narrowed his search to six people. Two of them had to be the Witnesses. Being an oracle had some perks to it. He knew Witness blood when it was present. But which ones were they?

He stared at the playing cards, willing something-- _anything_ to reveal itself to him. But the cards remained stubbornly silent. He couldn't read a thing from the six faces that stared back up at him.

He needed more time. More time to see how they reacted. How well the teams worked together. 

How they handled all that they would see over that weekend.

He couldn't risk revealing himself to anyone but the Witnesses. They were the only ones with the ability to not just write him off as insane--or worse.

They were the only ones who might possibly save her.

***********************************************************  
The bathroom was large and spacious and covered in an understated cream and gray slate tile. A huge whirlpool tub ran along one long wall, and a double sink with its gray spackled counter and a curved, softly lit mirror along another. A sit down vanity table with a beautiful bouquet of fall-toned flowers of lush oranges and golds was tucked in between the door that led back to Ichabod’s room and the other door that opened into hers.

“I could live in this bathroom. Damn,” she said, looking around, impressed in spite of herself.

She ran a hand along the edge of the good-sized bathtub, mentally sizing it up its proportions before she even realized what she was doing. 

“Damn it,” she muttered. She was _not_ picturing Crane with her in that tub. No. She was not.

Abbie strode across the room, heading for the door to the adjoining room. But a smile was creeping across her face anyway. Okay, yeah. She was.

If anyone was going to introduce Crane to the wonders of whirlpool tubs, it was going to be her.

She opened the door and headed into the other room, her face sobering a bit as she checked the room with a suspicious eye.

At first glance, the room seemed to be a mirror opposite of the one in which they’d first entered: the large king-sized bed on one side of the room, the Colonial era writing desk and chair, the fireplace with its large portrait above, and the two sitting chairs. The main differences were that Crane’s room had tones of blue in it, matching the dark blue of his coat in the portrait.

Anthony Wayne’s coat also was blue but had gold trim around the collar, cuffs and buttons, and the room reflected this hue instead.

Abbie studied the portrait of Wayne, which looked distinctly more like a painting than the one of Crane in his room. An older man, dressed with a gray wig, looked similar to most of the other white men she’d seen of the period. Fairly solemn, a bit of an indulged look around the cheeks and jowls, with a long, straight nose. Generally bland and likely not a true reflection of the man, whether for good or for bad.

Nothing seemed particularly off-putting or strange about the man. No more so than any white dude from the 18th century. But Crane made 18th century people way more vivid and real than any textbook she’d ever read. And the fact that this Wayne guy was obviously not one of those seven friends of Crane’s back in the day made him all the more interesting.

She paused as she thought about those friends of Crane’s. Seven “close companions”, four of whom had died. He had never spoken of them other than that one time, and she wondered, not for the first time, who they were and what kind of people prickly Ichabod Crane would have called a friend back in the day.

Abbie pursed her lips. She certainly hoped that those companions had been made of better stuff than Abraham and Katrina.

Abbie shook her head then, as if to clear it. “Cocktail hour. Fancy dress. Knocking Crane’s socks off. Right.”

She walked over to the large bed that dominated the room and set her bag down on top of it. A few moments of rifling through it and she had laid the outfit out she planned on wearing.

It had set her back quite a bit, and Visa was going to be giving her the old raised eyebrow come bill time, but she had not been able to resist it.

With a small little smile to herself, Abbie ran her hand over the fabric. It was a long sleeved dress, high in the front, with a plunging, open back. The edge of the dress just brushed the top of her knees. It was form-fitting, soft and breathtaking. The bronze color made her think of old warrior weapons and how they must have gleamed when they’d been new. Each movement she made in the dress reflected the light around it, changing the color of the bronze first more golden, then more copper and then back to bronze again. 

It was a dress unlike any she’d ever seen, and when she had slipped it on, she felt brave and powerful and sexy beyond her wildest dreams.

Abbie was generally a pragmatic soul. She wasn’t fanciful. She didn’t usually inhabit the world of dreams and words that her partner did.

But that dress had said “Witness” to her. And there’d been no hope for it. She’d had to have it.

And making Crane’s eyes pop was just icing on the cake.

Humming a little tune to herself, Abbie picked up the dress and all the specialty underwear she’d bought to go with it and padded across the room toward the bathroom.

It didn’t take her long to change, but it took a bit longer to do a quick sweep of her hair into an up-do, allowing a few ringlets to strategically frame her face, and then reapply her makeup, going for a darker, more night-out-on-the town look. Dangling earrings and a couple of bronze metal bracelets were a little icing on the cake.

Abbie slipped on a pair of matching bronze heels to complete the outfit, stood, and adjusted the dress before turning to give herself a smile in the full length mirror on the back of the door.

“Damn, girl,” she murmured, pleased with the dress and with herself. “You are gonna _own_ that man.” Her smile grew into a grin. She knocked on Crane’s door, opening it just enough to say, “Bathroom’s yours if you need it, Crane.”

She lost his reply in her hurry to scoot out of the bathroom before he could see her. She closed the adjoining door to her room, and a few moments later, she could hear the water in the sink running and Crane humming one of his off-color sea shanties.

“In love with a man who is up on the very latest in 1781’s sea shanties.” She shook her head as she wandered around her room, waiting for Crane to finish. “Lord have mercy.”

The idle wander around her room brought her back to her half-unpacked suitcase and the packet she’d been given at check-in.

She picked up the packet and skimmed through it. The character she was supposed to play was a spy--the femme fatale/Mata Hari type--who used every bit of her wiles to get the information she needed. Clever and devious and beautiful. All in one package. She had apparently come to Mr. C. Delicti's house in search of secret documents hidden somewhere on the premises.

_Your goal,_ the packet declared, _is to find these documents before any of the others succeed in their quest. Clues are everywhere to help you solve the murder of Mr. Delicti, but your primary goal is the documents._ Not Mr. Delicti.

"Well. Nice to know I'm a civic-minded sort of gal," Abbie said, shaking her head in disbelief. She was tucking the papers back into the packet when there was a short rap on the door from the bathroom. Abbie looked up, her pulse suddenly thundering in her throat. It took her two tries to speak. "Yes?"

"Are you ready, Lieutenant?" Crane's voice sounded clearly through the closed door. "I am prepared to make our entrance downstairs, if you are."

"C'mon in, Crane," she said, even as she pulled a little on her dress, adjusting everything quickly while Crane opened the door.

"I have perused my papers, Lieutenant, and..." Crane swept into the room, and his voice trailed off as he immediately sought and found her with his blue-eyed gaze.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open a little. One of those ever twitching hands had stopped, mid-gesture, and finally fell to his side. It seemed as if she had, for once, struck Ichabod Crane dumb.

Everything she had hoped for and more. 

She smiled a little and gave a slow turn in a circle. "You like it?"

"God's wounds." It wasn't just the exclamation. He'd said that many a time before. But not like this. Oh, God, not like this. Not with a rough rumble to the words where it was more of a bit of worshipful awe than a pithy expletive. Not with a look of pure, unshuttered want blazing from those blue, blue eyes of his. 

Abbie shivered a little. Did she like it? Oh, damn, she liked it.

It was at that point that she finally registered what _he_ was wearing.

He hadn't, of course, unbent enough to slip into a James Bond-esque tuxedo, but at that moment, Abbie didn't care. 

Crane had a severe, black formal coat with silver buttons, and lined on the edges of the coat and the cuffs with a beautiful silver hand-stitching. His waistcoat was also in black, and an elegantly tied cravat lay in gentle pleats on his chest. 

His legs, for once, weren't hidden in those huge boots he loved so much, but encased in form fitting white stockings, showing off his calves, and topped off with simple black shoes, almost like a slipper, on his feet.

She wanted to eat him alive.

"Miss Mills," he finally said, his voice still all husky and tumbling over her skin like a sensuous waterfall. "You are breathtaking."

The smile, she couldn't help. It was sleek and satisfied. Abbie crossed the room, meeting him where he stood. She fussed for a moment with his cravat, enjoying the feel of the silk pleats against her fingers. "I see you've got a new suit," she said, her voice all breathy sounding to her ears.

"I put some money aside to save for it," he said, never once taking his eyes from hers. "It's important to be prepared for any special occasion that should arise."

"I'm your special occasion?" she asked as she ran a hand down the coat, loving the feel of the soft fabric against her fingers.

"You said finery, Lieutenant," he said softly.

"I did." She looked up at him then, her dark eyes taking in every movement of his face, every lick of his lips, every flutter of his lashes. "All this finery for me."

"Always and only for you" was his swift reply.

When he said things like that, Abbie couldn't think. All she wanted was to forget the mystery, forget the strange portrait, forget _everything_ and tumble down on that huge king-sized bed and make even his eidetic memory forget everything but her name. Preferably said over and over again in deep, rough, sexy groans. "You keep saying things like that, and we'll never leave this room."

Predictably, Crane perked up at that. One of his smiles--that combination of mischief and smugness--curved his lips. "I wouldn't say you nay."

Abbie pursed her lips at him. "You're a bad influence on me."

Crane pulled her into his arms and leaned down to murmur in her ear, "Just imagine the delinquency we could perpetrate if we _really_ put our minds to it."

She snuggled into him--just for a moment--breathing him in, enjoying the feel of his long arms around her. Wishing for that moment that they really could just stay in their room and perpetrate all sorts of delinquency. 

But duty called, as it ever did, and Abbie finally pushed away from him. "Cocktails, Crane. Mystery. Things we have to get to the bottom of."

He sighed, deeply, and frowned at her as he reluctantly released her. "You promised some luxury for us this weekend."

"I promised to _try_ ," she reminded him. Abbie walked over to where her bag was and picked up a small metallic handbag. She gestured at him with it. "I've got a small gun in here, just in case."

Crane pulled a face. "I haven't a pocket large enough in this coat for that."

"A place all into historical Revolutionary War stuff? There's bound to be a musket or a pistol somewhere you can borrow, if need be."

He rolled his eyes. "And I suppose there'll be ammunition just lying about? Gunpowder and musket balls?"

"Worse comes to worse, grab a big heavy statue. Those work, too." She winked at him and then headed toward the door. "C'mon. We're going to be late."

She had a hand on the knob of the door and was just about to turn it when she herself was turned around and pinned flat against the door. Crane grabbed her purse with one hand and carefully placed it on the small table near the door. Then, he threaded his fingers through hers, pressing her hands back on either side of her head.

"What are you doing, Crane?" she demanded. At least, she tried to demand it. The demand did come out a little breathless.

"You've kissed me thrice now, Lieutenant." His blue eyes scanned her face, lingering a long time on her lips, before he continued, "It's about time I evened the score, don't you think?"

Abbie blinked, her breathing steadily growing more rapid as his face leaned down closer to hers.

Instead of the kiss on the lips she was expecting, Crane instead placed a gentle kiss on the pulse of her throat. Soft as a whisper.

Her breath stuttered.

Then, he straightened a bit and gave a little love bite to the pulse in her wrist, before swirling his tongue ever so lightly against her skin.

"Ohhhh," she sighed, the air exhaling in a long, gentle rush from her lungs.

His final kiss was to the very edge of her nose. A kiss that sent little tingles down her spine.

Then he straightened all the way up and released her hands. They fell in a boneless kind of way against her body. Her eyes fluttered back open and she stared up at him. He grabbed for the knob on the door and whispered into her ear as she did so. "Luxury awaits you, Lieutenant." He then gave her the briefest caress, following the spiral of one ringlet from where it started to where it lay against her breastbone. "All you have to do is say the word."

With that, he turned the knob, opened the door and gently pushed her away from it. He walked out into the hall.

"God," Abbie murmured.

She thought she'd have to be gentle. To be slow. To help him adjust to the ways of 21st century relationships.

Abbie absentmindedly grabbed her purse from the table, her mind still on the gorgeous man out of time waiting for her in the hallway.

She had no idea that it would be _him_ showing _her_ that her 18th century man needed no help in that department. Not. one. bit.

As she closed the door behind her and followed Crane into the hallway, he bent an arm toward her, one of his dark eyebrows winging upward, as he said, "Ready, Lieutenant?"

And at that moment? Abbie was ready for anything.

_Anything._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd finish this in time, and I'm going out of town tomorrow for the weekend, but I so wanted to have a piece for this weekend! So I'm staying up later than I should. Urgh. *grin* 
> 
> But I'm done! Yay! Go Abbie Mills!!! Ichabbie forever! :) Free Timothy! :)
> 
> And I had way too much fun with looking up synonyms for the colors. Way too much fun. ;)

It took the entire walk down to the library where cocktails were being served for Ichabod's heart rate to get back to normal.

Not that he helped himself any by staring so unabashedly at the Lieutenant's dress that he nearly knocked over what looked to be a very old vase on one of the tables in the hallway outsider their rooms.

"Crane," she murmured, a slight warning in her voice that warred with the very satisfied look in her dark brown eyes.

He just grinned at her in response, for once completely unembarrassed. The pure, giddy happiness that bubbled inside him wouldn't allow for anything but joy. Joy in their surroundings, joy in the gleaming dress, and joy in her. After so much misery and heartache they'd been through, they finally were getting a moment of joy.

And he intended to bask in it.

The route to the library wasn't a long one, and as they entered, he took note of four other people littered across the room, two women and two men. 

The woman on the couch gave them a small smile as she brought her glass to her mouth. Her Native American heritage was evident in her bone structure and thick dark hair that was cut in a short, almost severe cut that only drew attention to her striking cheekbones. She swiftly put him in mind of his friends from long ago, with dark eyes that hid the secrets of the ages. Her simple black dress gave her an aura of elegance and mysterious beauty.

The other woman in the room was as different from her as night was from day. Here was what they'd called in his day an "English rose". He could easily have seen such a girl in any of the ballrooms of his youth. Golden blonde hair, wide blue eyes, pale skin and a petite frame with enough curves to keep things interesting. She wore a dress of vivid blue.

The English rose stood in one corner of the room, speaking in low tones to a man of average height with a shock of dark black hair on his head. He had the look of the Orient around him with his almond-shaped eyes and square jaw. The man glanced over his tuxedo-clad shoulder at them, giving them a slight nod before turning back to his conversation with the young woman with him.

The final occupant of the room stood over near a table with a number of bottles and decanters. He was tall, almost as tall as Ichabod himself, with long hair styled in what Abbie had told him were called "dreadlocks". He also wore a tuxedo and was swirling a snifter of what appeared to be brandy in one brown hand. Upon hearing them come in, he turned and gave them a smile. "What's your poison?" he asked in a British accent remarkably similar to his own, gesturing toward the bottles that lined the table.

Ichabod tried later to describe to Abbie exactly what it was in that moment. There were so many things that were so very different about the man in front of him that it didn't seem quite possible to believe what his eyes were telling him. But the tilted up smile, the gleam of repressed mischief, and the turn of his hand...and Ichabod saw his brother.

He blinked, his breath stopping in a barely perceptible gasp.

Abbie heard the gasp, or he assumed she had, because she looked up at him, concern etched on her features. "Crane?" she asked in a low voice.

Ichabod shook his head almost imperceptibly. Abbie frowned at that, giving him a look that promised he hadn't closed the door on the topic, and then threaded her arm through his.

His lieutenant was generally not one for many random displays of affection. Not with any man she had courted nor with her friends or her sister. She held herself normally in careful reserve, only letting people in so close. Her small hand on his arm seemed even more of a comfort, knowing how rare the gesture was. 

He let out a breath, relaxing slightly, taking comfort in the gesture and in her. Then, Ichabod gestured toward the man who'd spoken. "What would you like?" he asked.

Abbie walked alongside Ichabod as they made their way over to the man and gave him a measuring look, obviously trying to see what Ichabod had seen, before she smiled. "A glass of white wine would be great," she said.

The man nodded and reached for one of the bottles, pouring Abbie a glass and handing it to her before glancing at Ichabod. "And you?"

Ichabod hesitated. He hadn't planned on drinking anything that evening, preferring to keep his wits about him, but after seeing his long-dead brother in the face of the man in front of him, Ichabod felt as if he could use a fortifying glass of something.

"A whiskey, if you've got it," he replied.

He ignored Abbie's immediate raised eyebrow. He'd never been good at hiding his feelings in general, nor from Abbie in specific, but God's wounds, if he was to be around the man all evening, he needed a little liquid support.

"I'm surprised," the man said. "I fully expected to be the only Englishman here this evening."

Ichabod accepted the proffered glass of whiskey, took a sip, and gave him a faint smile. "You are, sir. I'm an American."

"Not born and raised, though," the man replied easily.

Ichabod only inclined his head, giving him the point. He took another sip of his whiskey.

"Where did you grow up?" the man asked.

Abbie stiffened a little, her fingers digging into his arm a little.

"A small place in Scotland," Ichabod replied, giving him another polite smile. "You wouldn't know it."

The man studied him for a moment before he returned with a polite smile of his own. "Don't be so certain."

Abbie chose that minute to step into the conversation. She determinedly steered the topic away from his childhood home and upbringing. "So, are we addressing each other by our mystery names? Or have you all introduced yourselves as yourselves?"

The man swallowed what remained in his snifter and set the glass down on the table. "It appears that all of us are here with partners." He nodded at the woman on the couch. "My wife," he explained. And then he gestured toward the couple in the corner. "Brother and sister, if you can believe it." The look of amusement that reminded him so painfully of John's mischievous personality was back on the man's face. "A very eclectic crew here for this mystery weekend." He tilted his head. "How are you two connected?"

Abbie gave him a long look before she said, "We're partners." Her chin tilted up and let her hand trail from Ichabod's arm down to his hand, where she threaded her fingers through his. "In every sense of the word."

"Good to know," the man replied with a chuckle. He glanced over at his wife and then asked, "How are we introducing ourselves, love?"

""I could say that I'm Amanda Cyan," she replied, her voice rich with amusement. "That's what my packet says, anyway."

"And if she did that, I'd introduce myself as Oliver Verdigris."

"Mrs. Peacock and Mr. Green," Abbie murmured.

"Indeed." He grinned at her. "Since I've met Professor James Amethyst and Mrs. Lily Ivory over there, I assume I have the good fortune of meeting Miss Scarlet and Colonel Mustard?"

"Captain Bennet Aureate and Miss Grace Titian," Ichabod offered.

The smile slowly vanished from Verdigris' face. He studied Ichabod again, this time, in a way that reminded him all too uncomfortably like his father. Finally, he gave them a faint smile. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Ichabod wasn't certain he took any pleasure in the acquaintance himself, so he merely inclined his head.

Verdigris excused himself and walked over to join his wife on the sofa. Abbie watched him go a moment before she turned toward him with a frown.

"What was that all about?" she hissed.

Ichabod stared thoughtfully at the couple on the couch, their heads tilted together in low conversation. He took another sip of his whiskey before setting it down, half-finished, on the table near the brandy snifter. 

Abbie tugged on his hand, and he finally turned his attention to her.

His voice was quiet as he answered her. "I fear there is much more going on here than we first expected."

Abbie didn't respond other than to tighten her fingers around his again, urging him to continue.

"I have never spoken of my family--outside of my father, who you know, disowned me when I joined the American cause."

She nodded slowly, a puzzled look on her beautiful face.

"Obviously, I had my mother, but I also am the youngest of three sons. Two half-brothers, many years my elder."

Abbie's dark eyes searched his face. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked.

"You know the phrase 'I've seen a ghost?'" he asked, dodging around the question, his fingers active straightening the bottles on the table. He wasn't a particularly tidy man, but his hands needed something-- _anything_ \--to occupy them.

"Yes..."

"I've just seen one," he replied, a rough quality sneaking into his voice as emotion thrummed through him. He tilted his head toward Verdigris. "My brother, John. He..."

Abbie followed his gaze to Verdigris, whose deep chuckles somehow made the room a little livelier just with the sound of them. _So much like John._

"Do you mean you actually saw the ghost of your brother?" she asked in a low voice. "Or...?"

He shook his head impatiently. "Verdigris. His mannerisms. His smile." He gave Abbie a pained look. "It's John."

"You think he's related to you somehow?" she asked.

Ichabod shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know what to think, Lieutenant. But I can't shake the feeling. It's remarkable how someone so different can be yet so similar."

Abbie sighed before squeezing his hand again. "We'll figure this all out, Crane. We will." She took another long drink from her wine glass and set it down next to Crane's tumbler. "What were you saying again about time for luxuries?" She sighed again. "We'll be lucky if we don't have tribulation three before we finish dinner."

Her tone held the hint of exasperation he was so familiar with--exasperation at the constant assault on their lives, exasperation at their circumstances, but a little more unusual, no exasperation toward him. His heart, which still privately ached over the loss of his brothers, felt her protection and worry and love seep through it, healing places she didn't know she had the power to heal. 

Ichabod tugged on her hand until she came forward toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, ever so briefly, and said in a quiet voice in her ear, "Luxury is every moment spent with you, Lieutenant."

She huffed out a breath and then tightened her arms around him before letting him go. She blinked a bit rapidly as she looked up at him. "Same," she said.

The word was simple but emphatic. He rolled it over, the slang, in his mind as he often did, tucking things away in his memory.

She squeezed his hand one more time before releasing it and then gazed at each person in the room for a few moments before turning back to him. "Mrs. White and Professor Plum next?" she asked.

He nodded and motioned her in front of him. He followed Abbie across the room, doing his level best to ignore the interested gazes of Verdigris and his wife as they made their way over to the other two occupants of the room. 

Only once did he glance back over his shoulder toward the couple on the couch. It was only then that he realized that during his conversation with the man, he'd never quite been able to bring himself to look the man directly in the face.

For if he had, he would have instantly understood he was looking at a Crane descendant.

The eyes that met his gaze were not the deep brown he expected, but the same shade that stared back at him in the mirror each day. A brilliant blue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abbie kind of ran away with me here. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not. LOL!
> 
> The plot will continue at a brisker pace soon. I promise. :)

Just because Abbie was used to the constant feeling of being off-kilter, waiting for the other shoe to drop, didn't mean that she actually liked it.

Sure, there were things about fighting off the apocalypse that were exciting. The adrenaline high after killing off a demon or ghoul or some other supernatural creepy-crawly was pretty intense. Actually, it was close up there with some of the drugs she had taken back in the day. And it was only made better by the grin that would flash across her partner's face afterward. Their shared glee in victory. 

Crane was, by nature, kind of a grumpy person. So was she. He got out his frustrations in impassioned rants. She was more taciturn, bottling it all up inside. But neither of them were the happy go lucky sort who smiled a lot at life. Crane might have been, back when he was young over in Britain. She allowed for that. But she found it very difficult to think of him as anything other than her version: cranky, prickly, sarcastic and brilliant.

So, whenever she got an actual smile from him--one of those glorious, gleaming grins of his, it made the adrenaline rush ever so much richer, deeper and fuller.

Not to mention that her body always immediately wanted to leap on his and wrap around him like those twinkling lights wrapped around a Christmas tree.

Yes. There were one or two benefits to this crazy apocalyptic partnership.

But she felt that most of the time, she and Crane were running from fire to fire, trying to solve things in a reactive way. They had no plan. It was all seat of the pants.

And for someone who had carefully built her life from ashes, who had worked so damned hard to set up structure and control and boundaries, a life like hers was terrifying.

Abbie had hoped for a simple, fun weekend with Crane to relax. They'd both been hurting for such a long time that she wanted something to combat it all. Something stupid and fun and just the two of them to have a good time and maybe, just maybe, to lay down a few of their masks and see what they could do with all the emotions and sexual attraction that lay under the surface had between them.

Abbie glanced up at Crane as he joined her near the other couple in the room, and her heart thudded a little bit harder. She'd always loved people pretty intensely, when she allowed them inside the walls she'd built around herself. There was Mama, of course, and Daddy. Jenny. Corbin and Joe. Irving. Her inner circle was fairly small. They'd all abandoned her, in some ways, much as she had abandoned them, she guessed. She struggled with that. Had struggled her whole life. Still struggled with it. But the abandonment hurt so much because she loved them so much.

But Crane?

It made no damn sense.

He was a white, privileged-beyond-belief man. He was from the 18th century. The 18th century! He was cross and cranky and a real ass half the time. He'd hobnobbed with slave owners and stole his best friend's girl. His marriage had been a disaster of epic proportions. And his failures were always done on a grand, beyond belief scale. No half-measures for Ichabod Crane in that department.

So many reasons to run far, far away from any kind of involvement with him. Let alone a romantic one.

You could look at Crane and see all the outward trappings and stop there. It was easy to do.

But if being forced into a partnership with him had taught Abbie anything, it was that people shouldn't be judged by their outward appearance.

If she'd let them take him away and lock him up and wiped her hands of him, much as she'd done to her sister all those years ago...God. What she would have missed.

A heart of a lion. A man who sought out truth wherever he could find it. A man unafraid to walk through danger if it meant he'd do the right thing at the end of it all. Curious and forever eager to learn. Absorbing knowledge like a sponge. 

A man who made mistake after mistake but never stopped picking himself up and trying to do better the next time.

A man who challenged her, never let her hide and lick her wounds, and was always searching for her. He knew her. Head to toe. Inside out. And he never flinched or looked away. He saw her in a way no one else had ever done. 

Fiercely protective. And a man whose love for her was desperate, powerful, and enduring. One that would have him risking injury, death and the untethering of his soul for her.

Abbie reached out for his hand and wrapped hers around it. He gave her a little smile that lit his expressive blue eyes.

If she had to face a hundred apocalypses, getting to partner with Ichabod Crane was worth it. Loving him was worth every sacrifice she'd had to make.

He tightened his hand around hers as they reached the other couple. Something deep within settled inside her. At that moment, she knew. She really knew they'd finally become one. One in the way God had designed couples to be way back when. Crane had leapt off that ledge ages ago. She'd only just now finally gotten up enough courage to follow him.

They didn't need a marriage license or even to have sex, when it all came down to it. 

Becoming one was a process of the heart.

That it had taken her so long and such a fight to get to this point, she realized, was only indicative of how important it was that she and Ichabod be certain of each other as a team for the remaining tribulations.

Moloch had tried his best to drive a wedge between them. Abraham, Katrina, Jeremy, Pandora and even Danny, to some degree, had done the same. And she and Crane had pushed and shoved at each other, feeding into each other's deepest fears of betrayal and abandonment until he'd run away on a walkabout and she'd fled to Hell to not have to face the mission and burden that had been placed on their shoulders.

God had given them a mission. A terrible, awful mission.

But He'd given them a blessing beyond measure to counterbalance what they had to do. And they'd finally both stopped running long enough to see what they'd been given in each other.

In a life full of turmoil and uncertainty, Abbie now had a bedrock to stand on.

She inhaled a bit shakily. She wanted, in that moment, to express everything that was going on in her head. She didn't want a mystery. She didn't want to make small talk. She wanted a quiet place alone with Crane where she could show the man how very, very deeply she loved him.

But Crane was already directing his attention outward toward the young couple in front of them, a polite smile on his face. 

Abbie sighed internally and forced her brain to pay attention to what her man was saying.

"Good evening," Crane began. "I'm Captain Aureate and this is my partner, Miss Grace Titian."

The man of the pair's lips quirked upward. "Not a Colonel, then?" he asked. He took a sip of his glass of wine, not waiting for or expecting an answer from Crane, before he stretched out his hand. "James Amethyst. And this is my sister, Lily Ivory."

Crane took the hand offered him and shook it. He then gave the lady a slight bow. "A pleasure, madam."

Lily gave him one of those sweet, limpid little smiles that pretty white girls like her had been giving men like Crane since the beginning of time. Calculated to look sweet, innocent and charming. But Abbie saw plenty of lively intelligence behind the blue eyes in the china doll face. There was way more going on with her than met the eye, and she wasn't about to let Crane get pulled into any sort of chivalrous trap Blondie might lay out. It was a noble thing to help Crane stay out of trouble. Nothing having to do with jealousy. Nothing at all.

Abbie's moving her arm around Crane's waist was just to get more comfortable. That was all.

Lily saw the movement and her eyes gleamed. "A pleasure, Captain." She paused, long enough to make certain that Abbie understood there _was_ a pause, and continued, "Oh, and Miss Titian, too, of course."

Abbie bared her teeth at her in a semblance of a smile. "Oh, please. Call me Grace."

Lily grinned then, a look of mischevious delight on her pretty face. "And call me Lily." She winked at Abbie. "It's a pretty name, even if it isn't really mine."

Crane glanced between Lily and Abbie, obviously sensing something not quite right, but at the same time, unable to see anything wrong superficially in the words being spoken.

"Lily, behave," James chided her. He held out his hand to Abbie. "It's nice to meet you."

Abbie took the man's hand and shook it. Lily's blue eyes continued to sparkle in that merry kind of way, as if she were privately amused by everything around her. And there was something about the young woman that drew her in, even if she was making Abbie feel a bit territorial about Crane.

Crane, in the meantime, seemed relatively oblivious to Lily's charm. He'd let his arm settle around Abbie's shoulders, and his fingers idly traced along the shimmering fabric of her dress. She was a little surprised how good and how _natural_ it felt. 

Crane's own small action linking them together as one unit made her feel a little less feral toward the pretty blonde, and it allowed Abbie to thaw enough to ask, "A nice family weekend away for you two, then?"

Lily snorted. James gave her a look before he said, "Sort of." He hesitated before he continued, "Lily and I are both very into genealogy. Probably because neither of us knows very much about our mutual father." He gave a little self-deprecating shrug. "We started doing a little digging into the past and got as far back as the Revolutionary War era, and then we got this out of the blue invitation to this murder mystery weekend. Through the genealogy site we use, no less."

"I talked James into it," Lily confided to them with a grin. "He thought it was unsafe to go haring off to some weekend in the country on a whim." She spread her hands out in front of her, her chest rising up in the dress ever so slightly as she did so. "But I do love doing things on a whim."

Crane, being a man, absentmindedly followed the movement with his eyes. Abbie fought to keep a scowl off her face. _Stupid cow._

James rolled his eyes. "And that is the understatement of the year."

Lily turned to look at her brother and quipped something Abbie was certain was pithy, biting and perfectly sibling-esque to James. Abbie was, however, not paying attention.

Crane had taken the opportunity of the siblings' distraction with their friendly bickering to lean down to whisper in her ear. "As if there were even a contest between the two of you, Lieutenant." He gave her just the whisper of a kiss behind her ear. "She might be a beautiful lily, but you are my magnificent bird of paradise."

A little shiver ran down her spine at the words. "That better be a damned good flower, Crane," she said in a low voice.

"Exotic and colorful. Thrives in sunlight." He shifted his hand to rest on the nape of her neck, stroking the sensitive skin there with one of his long, slender fingers. "Also known as the crane flower."

He was going to be the death of her yet. Abbie willed her body to stop its instinctual cat-in-heat reaction to his hands on her and made the effort to retort back at him instead. She tilted her head to look up at him, a dark eyebrow raised. "A crane flower? Seriously?"

"Check your beloved Google, Lieutenant," he practically purred into her ear. "You'll see that I tell you nothing but the truth in this matter."

His blue eyes were filled with a heat that was doing strange things to her insides. And they hadn't even had dinner yet. This night was going to last _forever_. God. 

She was a 21st century woman. She had made it to Hell and back-- _literally_. She was strong, smart and powerful and had no need to be simpering over any man.

But the idea of being Crane's bird of paradise--his own crane flower--appealed to something deep inside her. Perhaps it was as simple as his finally helping fill a place that had been abandoned and lonely for so long. Or perhaps it appealed to the little black girl who had never been quite good enough, no matter how hard she tried, for the white world around her. Here, with him, it wasn't about her skin color. He saw Abbie--the person underneath it all. And to him, that Abbie was exotic and colorful and magnificent.

She wanted to say something to him. Something that could express her feelings with half the beauty and eloquence that he was always spouting to her.

But she wasn't him. She didn't have the amazing facility with language that he did. All she knew was that she loved him.

And in the end, that was all that really mattered.

Abbie leaned into him, her arm tightening around his waist, and her voice was rough, husky and somewhat broken as she whispered, "I love you so fucking much, Ichabod Crane."

Crane went completely still in her arms. And the whole world slowed. The conversations going on around her disappeared--and all she felt and saw was him.

She lifted her eyes up and watched as glory passed across his expressive face. His eyes closed, he inhaled a shaky, trembling breath, and then hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"And I you, my Lieutenant," he finally said, his voice soft and full of wonder. "Beyond _reason_."

And in that moment, all the pain and anguish of her life--everything she'd ever been through, natural or supernatural--was suddenly worth it.

God had given her Crane.

And she truly felt as if she were a bird in paradise.

"Ladies and gentleman, dinner is served." The voice of the hotel staff member in the doorway barely made it through the beautiful fog around her. Crane seemed equally as frozen, unable to move, staring down at her with unshuttered emotion in those turbulent baby blues of his.

It was finally Lily who broke through their mutual stupor. She laid a hand on Abbie's arm and pretty much twinkled merry laughter at her. "Time to eat, lovebirds."

Crane grew a bit flustered, as he was wont to do. He had, of course, come from a time where blatant expressions of affection were just _not done_ in public.

But Abbie didn't really care about that. As they followed the others out of the library, she wove her fingers through his, he smiled at her with a smile of blazing joy, and she was happy. Abbie Mills, for the first time she could ever remember, was truly, completely, mind-alteringly happy.

And it was fucking _amazing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finding it so interesting to kind of look back on the series now and take a lot of the missteps the writers made with the characters and have that play into a general theme of the witnesses fighting their calling and each other. It puts, at least for me anyway, a lot of things into place that happened that generally don't make any sense if you just take it at face value.
> 
> The first tribulation was Moloch, and he brought in the idea of betrayal and the witnesses turning on each other. And the mistakes through Season 2 and 3 can easily be seen as the witnesses not working together and as a team. As one, so to speak.
> 
> The tribulations, you would expect, would get worse and worse as time goes on. And often, it is under the fire of testing that our mettle is made. Abbie and Crane need to be a forged team to have any hope of surviving the remaining tribulations. 
> 
> And so they now are. :)
> 
> I was looking for a different, more exotic kind of flower to use to compare with Ms. Ivory's "lily", which, of course, is a white flower.
> 
> I found the bird of paradise, which has a meaning of "magnificent", and I thought Crane would be thinking of this and immediately apply that to Abbie. So I picked that flower. And then, I started reading the description of what the flower was, and that it had another nickname of "the crane flower", and I was like...get out of TOWN.
> 
> And then, well, of COURSE I had to use it.
> 
> I love little serendipitous moments like that. *happy smile*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies--both for the delay in posting this and in responding to the really awesome feedback some of you left me. I will try to do better next time. *hugs* You guys really know how to make a girl feel good.

Ichabod was frankly done.

Done with every distraction. Done with demons, ghosts, witches and monsters. Done with mysterious and unexplained happenings.

He wasn’t interested in portraying Captain Aureate, Colonel Mustard or any sort of false military personage that this unseen host had planned for him to act out.

Nor was he interested in solving any parlor game mystery.

All he wanted, in that moment, was to lock himself in a room with Abbie and not come out for a week.

Ichabod inhaled, trying to settle his fraught emotions, and picked up his fork. The roast was quite succulent, and normally, he loved the different types of food he had experienced in the 21st century. This roast itself reminded him of ones made for him by their cook back in the day. Good food with a wisp of home was normally, for him, sheer joy and pleasure.

But the only meal he truly wanted was Abbie.

He took a bite of the roast, chewed and swallowed, barely tasting it. _She loves me. She_ loves _me!_ His brain was singing the refrain as cheerfully as one of those infernal Disney princes did.

His lips twitched as the thought crossed his mind. He was rather besotted. He had been for longer than he cared to admit.

Ichabod glanced across the table at Abbie, who was seated opposite him at the far end of the table. She was staring back at him, but not in a way their eyes met. She was, he thought, staring at his mouth.

He couldn’t help his lips quirking up into a smirk of sorts. Abbie obviously saw the smirk. Her eyes raised up to meet his and she scrunched her nose at him before she returned her attention to her plate.

He could have happily kept up the silent glances with Abbie all evening, but his attention was reluctantly diverted by a hand on his arm. Ichabod set down his fork and turned his attention to Verdigris’ wife.

“We haven’t had a chance to speak,” she said with a smile. “You’re Captain Aureate, I understand.” She laughed a little before she picked up her wine glass, took a sip and then replaced the glass on the table. “We can, at least, say our host as a sense of humor.”

Ichabod wasn’t certain at all about the humor or anything else of their host, but he inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words. He took a sip of his own wine to prevent himself from saying anything that might get him in trouble with Abbie later.

“Are you actually a military man yourself?” she asked. “Or is it just luck of the draw that you got the soldier role?”

Ichabod hesitated a moment, feeling as if he were stepping through a minefield with his answer. “I am. Or, I was. I am not in the service any longer.”

“What branch?” she asked.

“Army,” he replied. “Rank of Captain before I…” He paused, stumbling over the word “died” that wanted to come out. “…was discharged,” he continued, hoping his pause wasn’t too noticeable.

“Ah,” the woman replied, taking another bite of her roast with a delicacy that seemed at odds with the very strong, warrior-esque figure she made. “Do you miss it?”

It was a strange question to ask. Most people not in the military didn’t understand the mindset behind being a soldier. Yes, there was death and destruction and viewing things that never should be viewed by any rational, sane human being. And yet, there was something remarkably simple about being a soldier. It provided a clear purpose in life. A way to channel restless energies into something bigger than yourself. Perhaps it wasn’t that way for every soldier, but for Ichabod, he’d reveled in the way being a soldier had called to his intelligence and his sense of duty and honor. Understanding strategy, making plans, struggling against tyranny and for freedom, working with some of the best minds of the 18th century. He’d loved it, reveled in it, even.

Perhaps that had been his witness soul fighting to be born, even back then. Of having his eyes opened to evil and being all in to fight it.

“Parts of it,” he said finally. “My fellow soldiers, mostly.”

“You don’t stay in contact with them anymore?” she asked as she reached for her glass of wine again.

“No,” he replied, his voice soft. Ichabod looked down at his plate for a moment, wishing, in some ways, that he didn’t have an eidetic memory. That the anticipation of seeing Washington, Jefferson or even Franklin wasn’t always there in the back of his mind. That he couldn’t hear the laughter of his men ringing out in unexpected places and times or hear their screams as they died while he slept.

His hand shook a little as he cut into his roast again, deliberate and slow, trying to remind himself again that he was in the 21st century, with all its wonders, and the past was somewhere he could not return. And he knew, deep in his heart, that no matter how he missed the time and the culture and the people there, he would never again want to be where Abbie could not be.

“I’m sorry.” Amanda’s voice was almost an irritant into his meanderings, constantly drawing his attention back to the present.

Ichabod looked up at that and saw sympathy and understanding in the dark eyes that studied him. He smiled a little, his roast forgotten again. “Thank you,” he said simply. He then inhaled, made his smile a little larger, and reached for his own glass of wine. “And you? What noble profession are you a member of?”

Amanda laughed at that, giving him a chance to take a few sips of wine, soothing his nerves.

“I don’t know that it’s a particularly noble profession,” she said, her lips quirking upward. “But I enjoy it.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug of her shoulders. “I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer is a fine profession. Defense of the law is always an honorable pursuit.” Ichabod nodded then, toward Abbie. “My partner is in law enforcement. I know that she finds it very rewarding.”

“It has its moments,” Amanda admitted. “Although there seems to be more red tape and arguing these days rather than any pursuit of honor.” She smiled then, a bit more genuinely. “But I thank you.”

He returned the smile and let silence fall. Amanda took another bite of her roast and was quiet herself for a few moments before she asked, “And you? What is your ‘noble profession’?”

One’s profession seemed to define a person in the 21st century. It wasn’t like the 18th century, where having a profession meant you weren’t wealthy enough to not have one, and therefore something to be looked down upon.

Ichabod still struggled with the warring ideas. He’d grown up in privilege and a member of the nobility in England. And although he refused to look down on those who had a profession, it still was a hard thing for him to wrap his mind around. He had been very proud of his service to his new country and fighting for it. And he’d been so wrapped up in the shock of new, freedom-fighting ideas and the excitement and terror of war, that he’d had very little time to consider how he felt about truly becoming a soldier rather than one of the idle nobility.

He had also watched the struggle Abbie had had to keep the demands of her own profession appeased while she fought as a Witness. Fighting in apocalyptic wars made the idea of taking on a regular, every day profession seem rather unimportant and irrelevant in the greater scheme of things.

But he also knew that jobs kept them in food, shelter and clothing. And while the largesse he, Abbie and Jenny had inherited from Joe upon his untimely death helped ease their way, it still bothered him that Abbie had to work so hard to keep them afloat.

It mattered not that Abbie assured him repeatedly that it was important that one of them be free to do the research and problem solving they needed. He wanted to provide for Abbie himself. Or at the very least, to not be such a terrible burden on her.

Ichabod frowned a little, lost in his thoughts. He then felt a hand on his sleeve which, again, brought him back to the present. He looked up and saw the dark, sympathetic eyes of Amanda staring back into his.

“My apologies. I was woolgathering again.” He attempted a smile. “I have, for so many years, considered myself a soldier that it is difficult to see myself as anything else.” He shrugged a little. “I truly think that will always ever be the profession that defines me.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Amanda replied softly.

They both fell silent, letting the hum of the dinner conversation ebb and flow around them as they both concentrated again on their meals. Ichabod could feel Abbie’s glances on him and knew it was likely she’d again ascertain his switch in moods.

He repressed a sigh. He wasn’t certain at all how he’d managed to be a spy for Washington for so long. Since being in the 21st century, he’d had absolutely zero ability to monitor and control his emotions. They seemed to leak out of him at every opportunity.

Amanda’s attention was soon diverted by James Amethyst’s, and Ichabod found himself being pulled into conversation with the very pretty Lily Ivory.

“I’m very curious, Captain,” she said, as she leaned in, her blond hair falling forward against an admittedly very impressive bosom. “Are you and Miss Titan also genealogy enthusiasts?”

Ichabod thought for a brief moment of the requirements of learning his ancestry and how, even now, he could correctly identify various members of his family tree back easily a hundred years from 1781. But he remembered how deathly bored he’d been by it. Especially since it had only taken him once to memorize the entire tree, and his tutor hadn’t believed him, making him repeat it in lessons several times before he finally gave in and let him drop the subject.

“My father impressed upon me the importance of studying my ancestry many years ago,” he began, idly twisting his fork between his fingers as he spoke. “But I’m afraid I was never very interested in the subject.”

“And Miss Titan?”

Ichabod frowned. He knew Abbie had always been rather fascinated with Grace Dixon, her ancestor she’d had the opportunity to briefly meet, but beyond that, family always seemed to be more of a painful subject for his lieutenant. He’d never seen her express any interest in the various branches of her family tree or learning more about them.

“Not to my knowledge, no. You would have to ask her to be certain,” he replied.

“I find it fascinating myself,” she offered. “Perhaps that comes from the not knowing,” she said, her voice taking on a quiet, almost sad tinge that seemed in odds with the merry, mischievous personality that had been on in full force earlier that evening.

“Ah,” he replied with a nod. “It is indeed maddening—the unknown. Even if the reality is terrible, it brings its own sense of peculiar comfort. When you know and understand, you can learn from what happened and go forward. To not know leaves you unable to do so.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “I don’t envy you that feeling, Madam Ivory.”

“Lily, please. I’m technically a missus, but that’s only until the divorce is final,” she said with a bit of a laugh. Then, she tilted her head. “It is strange, though. James and I were invited here through our genealogical group, and it is strange that neither you and Miss Titan nor Verdigris and his wife came here in the same way.” She gazed at him, her eyes considering him carefully. “How did you come to be here?”

Ichabod frowned. “I believe we received an invitation, although I’m not certain. Miss…Titan informed me of the weekend. I personally did not receive any correspondence from our host.” One of Ichabod’s eyebrows shot up in inquiry. “Speaking of whom, do you know anything about our host?”

Lily shook her head. “Nothing at all. None of us have seen or met him. It’s all very strange.” She fiddled with her own fork a moment before she continued, “And we’re brought here in pairs. Not six strangers, but two very together pairs. A brother and sister, a husband and wife and a pair of partners like you and Miss Titan. Are we all supposed to work together? In pairs? Separately?” She shook her head again. “It’s very confusing.” She frowned then. “And a little unsettling.”

“I must agree,” Ichabod said.

Their conversation was interrupted by another Victorian era servant, who mentioned that there would be sherry available for the women in the lounge.

Ichabod’s gaze immediately met Abbie’s. A frown etched between her eyebrows. He was certain there was a matching frown on his own face.

“Dessert will be served later,” the servant continued, a carefully expressionless look on his rather bland face. A man who was truly designed for blending into the woodwork.

“What the hell is this?” Lily demanded. “Some throwback to the 18th century?”

Ichabod had to bite his tongue from saying a word. Abbie, of course, was smirking. He gave her a pointed look that said “I’ll deal with you later.”

Unfortunately, Abbie never took that look of his seriously.

“We were left instructions by your host,” the servant said, his voice even-keeled and pleasant. “Drinks for ladies in the lounge, cigars and brandy in here for the gentlemen.”

“What if I want cigars and brandy?” muttered Amanda.

“Ladies, if you please,” the servant said in a polite but firm voice.

With a palpable reluctance, Abbie rose to her feet, which prompted the other women to finally do the same. The looks of the three women to their corresponding partners for the weekend were easily read and received, even by those not directly connected to them.

After the ladies exited, another servant entered the room, setting a box of what appeared to be Cuban cigars, and a tray with a bottle of brandy and three snifters on the recently cleared table, before disappearing out the door through which he’d come. Then, the servant who had ushered the ladies out of the room walked over to the table and placed a large envelope on the table.

He then walked across the room toward the door that led into the hallway, gave them a little bow and exited. A moment later, they could hear the lock click from both exit doors of the room.

Verdigris straightened, his eyes narrowing, and Amethyst looked troubled as he gazed at the door.

Ichabod, however, reached forward to grab the envelope the servant had placed in the middle of the table. A note was attached to its outside, and Ichabod read it out loud.

_Gentlemen, I welcome you to my estate. Your presence here, as you may have ascertained, is not random. You have each been given a pseudonym, modeled after the colorful characters from the Clue board game. You can choose to continue to use them or offer your real names to your fellow players. The choice is yours._

_In this envelope is your first clue. You have an hour to find the means of egress from this room. The ladies also have a similar task._

_Only if you find a hidden exit to this room will you be able to get the extra clue hidden for each of you once you leave the room. Otherwise, you must go into the next challenge without this aid._

_You can choose to assist each other in this task or work on it alone. Each packet will provide you with a solitary means of exiting the room that the others will not benefit from._

_Or you can attempt the harder choice of working together to find the exit that will allow egress for all three of you together. If you choose this route, you will find an additional bonus at its end._

_The choice is yours._

_Good luck, gentlemen._

Ichabod looked up at the two other men, who stared back with quite a bit of consternation. Then, he peered into the envelope and saw that there were four smaller envelopes. Ichabod pulled them out and laid them on the table. One envelope with each man’s pseudonym and one with the words “Working Together” written in elegant handwriting on the front.

He raised an eyebrow at the other men. “Well, gentlemen? What should we do?”

“The reward is apparently greater if we work together,” Verdigris said slowly.

“But the path is more difficult,” Amethyst reminded him.

“I have found myself that the more difficult path might be harder, but usually has benefits not only in the path’s end, but on the pathway itself,” Ichabod said quietly.

“Your vote’s for the most difficult way then, Captain?” Amethyst asked.

Ichabod hesitated a moment, his mind wandering back to the portrait in his room. There were questions he and Abbie had about this evening, and he wondered then whether the men sitting at the table with him had their own unpleasant surprises upon their arrival. He inhaled and then nodded. “I believe there is much more to this weekend than a simple parlor room mystery.” He gave them a wry look. “None of us were invited here by accident.” He gestured around the room. “I think it would behoove us to take advantage of every clue and reward that we are offered.”

Verdigris blew out a breath and nodded. “Can’t fault your logic, Captain.”

Amethyst looked from one to the other of them before he, too, nodded. “Let’s work together.”

Ichabod reached for the envelope labeled “Working Together” and ran his finger under the seal, ripping it open.

As soon as the envelope was open, the other three burst into flames.

Startled, the three men stared at the envelopes for a moment before Verdigris moved quickly into action and grabbed a water pitcher that was resting on the sideboard, quickly putting out the flames before they could damage the underlying table.

“I guess there’s no turning back now,” James said, still looking a bit stunned.

“Indeed,” Ichabod said, his blue-eyed gaze wide as he looked at the other men. He exhaled and then nodded. “Shall we begin, then?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the delay in posting on this. The holidays and vacation kind of ran away with me. I'm hoping to do better with getting some of these in-process stories done in 2017. We'll see how I do. LOL! Thanks again for all the lovely comments. You really know how to make a girl feel good. *hugs*

_Who the hell drinks sherry?_

Abbie watched the silent waitress bring in a tray with a bottle of sherry and some glasses and set it on the low, round table in front of one of the couches in the lounge. The last time she'd ever heard of anyone drinking sherry was the heroine of a romance novel she'd read several years ago. Heaving bosoms, rakish heroes and the ladies having sherry while the men smoked cigars and drank brandy.

"I'd better not freaking be in an 18th century romance novel," she muttered under her breath.

Lily evidently heard her muttered comment, because her lips quirked upward and her blue eyes began to twinkle.

Abbie couldn't help an answering twitch of her own. And really. Seriously. She was complaining about being in an 18th century romance novel when she was actively lusting after someone born before the Gregorian calendar came into official use?

The servant remained quiet, laying out four packets on the table near the alcohol and glasses, and then with one of those pleasant expressions that wasn't really actually a smile, vanished back into the hallway. Abbie heard the click of the key in the lock and rolled her eyes. _And now we're locked in here together. Great._

"So. Looks as if we're going to be in here together for a while," Lily said conversationally. She ran a slim finger over the top of the decanter of sherry, her perfect little nose wrinkling up. "And we're left with sherry. Couldn't they have brought in a couple of beers instead?"

"I'm with you there," Abbie replied as she joined her near the table. "This has been a long damned week. A beer would be nice right about now."

"I think we're probably onto the mystery portion of the weekend," Amanda said as she rose to her feet and idly walked over from where she'd been perched on the cozy chaise longue along one wall. "I didn't realize there'd be group activities, though. That seems a little counterproductive."

"I think everything about this weekend is a little off," Lily said, her blue eyed gaze traveling down to the packets. She looked up then, an idea obviously having been sparked in her mind. "Maybe we're supposed to do one another in and let the boys find us and guess who dunnit?"

Amanda laughed at that. "That'd be interesting, for certain."

Abbie looked around the room for a moment before she shrugged. "I don't see any of the classic weapons here." She then gestured toward the decanter. "But maybe the sherry is poisoned. So we probably shouldn't drink it."

Amanda shuddered. "I'd pass even if it weren't poisoned. Give me brandy any day of the week."

"Maybe your husband will save you a glass," Lily offered, the ever present mischief lurking in her eyes. 

Finally, the three women could no longer contain their curiosity, and they sat down in a row on the couch that faced the table. Lily reached over and grabbed the four envelopes, giving them a cursory glance before handing Amanda and Abbie the ones with their names on it. But before they could open the envelopes, Lily said, "Hold up a minute! Looks like we're supposed to read this big one first."

After reading through the message about the hour escape time and the locked room and the option of working together or working apart, Lily looked questioningly at each of them. "Well? What do you think?"

"Together," Amanda said decisively.

"Yes. I agree," Abbie replied. "I don't think any of us should be alone doing anything in this mystery." She frowned. "I get a very bad feeling about all of this."

"Me, too," Lily said with a nod. "I've been to one of these murder mystery weekends before, and it was nothing like this. It was all camp with bad actors and fake blood and old ladies pretending to be Miss Marple. Not this weird, creepy stuff." 

"We're agreed, then," Amanda said. She gestured toward Lily. "Go ahead and open the envelope and let's get started. The sooner we're out of Oz, the better, I say."

Lily ripped open the envelope and was preparing to pull out what was inside, when Abbie heard a hissing sort of sound emanating from all three of the smaller envelopes. 

Black spots began to appear on the smooth surface of the envelopes, almost seeming to melt through the paper.

"Holy shit!" Abbie exclaimed, jumping to her feet and letting the envelope fall to the floor. The other women quickly followed suit.

Within a few moments, whatever had been inside the envelope had been eaten away by whatever corrosive had been inside. A faint acrid odor spread throughout the room.

"Creepy. This is definitely creepy." Lily squatted down, looking at the damaged envelopes for a moment before she raised her gaze. "Apparently, they're serious about us only using one particular route." She got to her feet and picked up the larger envelope, which had also fallen to the floor in Lily's haste to get up. "Hopefully, this hasn't been acid-ed too." She peered inside and then pulled out what appeared to be a large crossword puzzle.

"A crossword puzzle?" Amanda said, leaning over Lily's shoulder to look. "What's the topic?"

Lily squinted at it and groaned. "History. Looks like it's all about American history." She sighed. "I sucked at history. Just didn't care enough." She gestured with the paper that had the puzzle on it. “I’m into genealogy and my own family history but I couldn’t care less about anyone else’s.”

"What era of history?" Abbie asked. "Or is it just random questions from all eras?"

Amanda took the puzzle from Lily and glanced through it. "Most of the dates on here are from the 1700s." She waved her hand toward the locked door to the hallway. "The concierge told me when I checked in that the owner of the place was a Revolutionary War buff." She rolled her eyes. "I barely passed my American history class in high school. It was dull. Dull, dull, dull. He droned on like you would not believe. Turned me off of studying anything with history, that's for sure."

Abbie herself had never been all that interested in history herself. American history's woven thread of slavery and inequality had made it something she never wanted to revisit. But then she'd met Crane. History personified. And yes, he could be the most insufferable, long-winded historian of them all, but...

She was turning into a lovesick fool.. Abbie sighed internally. Here she was, getting bristly and defensive about their dislike for the history of Colonial-era America, because it was _Crane's_ America.

Instead of letting that feeling dictate her actions, Abbie tried to change the subject somewhat. "It's too bad my partner isn't here with us. He's an expert in 1700s history. He'd have these all answered for us in no time flat."

Amanda gave her a half smile. "And that is probably why he's not with us right now." She peered at the puzzle again and raised a questioning eyebrow at Abbie. "Got any history by osmosis?"

Abbie hesitated. Probably more than she liked, yes, but probably not enough to know all the answers to the puzzle's questions. "I can probably answer a few. Guess on a few more." She pointed to the circled squares on the crossword puzzle. "I think these questions are meant to be hard. Once we get the answers, we have letters that probably unscramble and give us the location of another door or maybe a key so we can get out of here."

"Okay," Lily said. "But the answers to these puzzle questions would have to be somewhere in the room, too, no? Because he can't just have depended on us knowing the answers to them all."

Amanda brightened, then. "We could Google them!" She whipped her phone out of her pocket and waved it. "That should take care of things quickly!" But as she looked down at her phone, her face fell. "No signal." She glanced at Abbie and Lily. "Any luck with yours?"

Abbie carefully opened her purse, not wanting to reveal the small gun inside, and pulled out her phone. No signal. 

She shook her head. "None for me either."

Lily held up her hands as both women turned to look at her. "My phone's up in my hotel room. Can't help you there."

Abbie blew out a breath. "Well, I guess we're stuck either finding answers in the room or guessing what the letters might be and going that route." She gave them a wry look. "The letter did mention this would be the more difficult route."

Abbie took the puzzle from Amanda and began to read through the statements for the puzzle. “Two down. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence?”

“Even I know that one,” Amanda said. “Thomas Jefferson.”

“Jefferson fits,” Abbie said. She reached down and grabbed one of the old-fashioned pens that the servant had left and filled in the letters. “There’s another one here about the name of George Washington’s home in Virginia. That’s Mount Vernon.” She frowned as she wrote in the letters. “These questions are all really simple. Anyone who knew anything about U.S. history would know these.”

They continued going back and forth until the entire puzzle was filled out. But try as they might—and the minutes ticked away as they worked on the scrambled letters—they had no luck in coming up with a word that could be easily made from the chosen letters.

“It doesn’t make sense. How can you have this combination of letters?” Lily demanded. “They’re all consonants. Not even a y.”

“Maybe it’s in another language? Polish, maybe? They use a lot of consonants,” Amanda offered.

“Even if it is, I don’t speak Polish. Do you?” Lily replied, a frustrated look on her pretty face.

“Not a word.” Amanda sighed. She ran a hand through her dark hair. “Any chance you do, Grace?”

Abbie snorted. “I’m lucky I even speak English.” A little soft smile curved her lips. “My partner, on the other hand…”

“He’s a linguist, too?”

“Just has a really good memory and a facility with learning languages,” she said. 

“No offense, but I wish we had him here instead of you, if we were going to be splitting up teams,” Lily said, flouncing back against the couch. “I hate losing.”

Amanda rolled her eyes as she pressed the button on her phone. “We’ve only been in here for forty-five minutes. We still have fifteen before Doomsday arrives.” She raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. “And maybe we’d have been more fortunate if your brother had been in here instead of you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would have had more luck with him,” Lily agreed readily. “He’s nicer, too.” She flashed a smile at Amanda, her bad mood seemingly vanishing. “So, Miss Titan, do tell. Any luck deciphering that mess?”

Abbie had been trying, with some success, to ignore the other two women and focus solely on the puzzle. It was unlikely that the orchestrator of the game would have given them a puzzle they could not solve. However, they were in a room with very little else other than comfortable furniture.

She supposed they could start turning things over and look for hidden solutions underneath chairs and tables or rolled up inside lamps, but she had one of those gut feelings that the puzzle itself was the clue.

But the letters were all consonants and didn’t even make sense as a word with the vowels missing. Was it a code of some sort?

Abbie quickly worked through a couple of easy substitution ciphers—replacing one letter for another—but there was only the one word, and that word was only six letters long with no letters repeated. There wasn’t any way to easily tell what might be a substitute for an E or an A. Not in fifteen minutes.

She frowned as she studied the puzzle again. And suddenly, she heard Ichabod’s voice in her head.

She hadn’t told him that she still heard his voice that way sometimes. It wasn’t something she explained to the FBI psychiatrist, and she hadn’t even mentioned it to Jenny.

She’d gone past the point of worrying about ending up like her mother. She’d been to the literal Hell and back. Crane had been her anchor to reality. She truly credited his admonitions and encouragement in her head as keeping her sane throughout the trials of the last year.

If he was now the sound of her inner voice, she wasn’t going to quibble about it.

But that voice was confusing her with what weird thing it plucked out of her brain.

_There’s always another way, Lieutenant._

_Always another way. Always another way._ “Always another way,” she muttered out loud.

“What? What way?” Lily demanded.

Abbie stared at the paper for a long time—long enough to let her eyes unfocus. And suddenly clarity came whooshing in. “Oh, you sneaky, sneaky bastard!” she breathed. Her eyes gleamed as she grabbed one of the pens and began scribbling across the bottom of the paper.

Amanda and Lily, by this time, had both jumped up and were peering over her shoulders as they watched her write. “Douse the envelope on the tray?” Lily read.

“Douse the envelope on the tray?” Amanda stared at her. “How did you get that from those six letters?”

“The letters are a red herring,” Abbie said as she pushed all the paper, pens and crumpled scraps to the floor. She cleared the sherry and glasses off the silver tray and placed the large envelope on top. 

She then unstoppered the canister and carefully poured the sherry over the large envelope.

All three women watched as the envelope began to hiss and bubble. The envelope’s corners curled up and the acrid smell they’d smelled previously was back, this time stronger. Lily held her nose, and Amanda wrinkled hers. Abbie, however, kept pouring until all the sherry was emptied from the canister, and the chemical inside the envelope had burned through it and partially through the silver beneath.

And the melting away of the tray revealed a key.

“Oooh! Yes!” Lily crowed out loud.

“Quick! Get something to pick it up with before the chemical eats away at the key, too,” Abbie demanded.

Amanda looked wildly around and then hurried over to grab a runner underneath an old gas lamp on one of the end tables. She handed it to Abbie, a look of eager anticipation on her face.

Abbie gingerly wrapped her hand with the runner and picked up the key. Drops of the sherry fizzed ever so slightly as they hit the embroidery in the runner.

“Shit. It’s going to eat through that, too.” Lily’s eyes widened. “Don’t let it get on your hand, Grace.”

Abbie doubled up the runner and hurried over to the door, sticking the old key into the lock and turning it. 

A decisive click resounded through the room, and Abbie exchanged a triumphant grin with the other two women. She turned the knob and pushed open the door into the hallway, where a servant was waiting for them with a large rubber bucket.

“Excellent work, Miss Titan,” the servant said in a quiet, modulated voice. “With five minutes to spare as well.”

Lily and Amanda had followed her out into the hall and looked on as Abbie dumped the key and the runner into the servant’s bucket. She quickly inspected her hands, but soon ascertained that nothing had leaked through onto them.

Lily, by this time, had reached her and grabbed her arm, a wide, happy smile on her pretty face. “How did you do it, Grace? What did you see that we didn’t see?”

The door across the hallway swung open, and Crane stepped out, his blue eyes searching the hallway and landing on Abbie. His lips curved up into a devilish grin as he saw her, and Abbie’s heart skipped a beat.

_God in Heaven, he is delicious._

“You were triumphant, Lieutenant?” Crane demanded. James Amethyst, in the meantime, was dumping a similarly covered key into the servant’s bucket.

“Always, Crane,” Abbie said, beaming back at him.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Lily’s insistent voice finally dragged her attention away—albeit very very reluctantly—from Crane. “What did you see that we didn’t see?”

Abbie gestured toward the room they’d just exited. “It wasn’t the letters we needed to decipher. It was the puzzle grid itself.” She smiled. “The puzzle grid had letters from Benjamin Franklin’s alphabet hidden in the lines.”

“Benjamin Franklin’s what?” Amanda asked, an incredulous look on her face.

“Bloody Franklin,” Crane said in disgust. “Why is always Franklin?”

Abbie took in his face, wrinkled up in disdain, the ever-under-the-surface rant just waiting to come out of him, and began to laugh. She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Because who the hell else would it be, Captain?”

He stared at her a moment, a flurry of expressions rushing across his face, until he finally settled on one she loved best: that of cocky mischief. He leaned down in a conspiratorial manner and said, “Just wait until you hear what we had to do to get out.”

She grinned up at him. “I’ll be all ears, Crane,” she murmured in a voice low enough that only he could hear. “All ears.”

His mischievous smile grew larger. “Well, I certainly hope there’ll be more than just ears, Lieutenant.”

Abbie’s grin stretched nearly ear to ear in response. But before she could say a word, the servant in the room had cleared her throat, and all of them—some more reluctantly than others—turned to pay attention.

“An excellent first round, ladies and gentlemen.” The servant handed out color coded packets to each of the guests. “Breakfast is at eight in the morning in the dining room. Have a good evening!”

With a swish of her long black skirt, the servant disappeared down the hallway, taking her rubber bucket with her.

“Well, that was…interesting,” Verdigris said as he blew out a rather impressive ring of smoke from the lit Cuban cigar he was holding.

“You’ve saved some of that cigar for me, haven’t you?” Amanda demanded as she joined him, putting an arm around his waist.

“Always, love,” he said, offering her the cigar.

Amanda took a puff and let out her own plume of smoke before returning it to her husband. “I gather we’ll see you all at breakfast, then,” she said. She gave Abbie and Lily a warm smile. “Not sure what I’d classify that adventure as, but a pleasure being teammates with you ladies.”

“Go Team Girls!” Lily said with a grin.

James rolled his eyes as he gestured toward the stairs. “Time for bed. Say goodnight, Lily.”

“Goodnight, Lily,” Lily said with an impish look at the others.

James and Lily climbed up the stairs, followed not too far behind by Amanda and Oliver. Crane and Abbie, however, remained in the hallway for a moment, watching them go. Finally, Crane turned to Abbie, his expression light. “Shall we adjourn, Miss Mills?”

She smiled at him, her heart full to bursting. Such a simple thing, really, winning against a locked room like that. But she had almost the same rush of adrenaline she’d had so many times before when he and she had been victorious over some demon or obstacle in their way.

They’d won. Together. She didn’t even have to hear his story to know that their escape from the room had hinged on something she’d taught him. She just knew.

Tomorrow, she’d worry about what that meant. Tomorrow, she’d worry about the fact that something was off and wrong and weird about this place. That could all wait until tomorrow.

Tonight was all about Crane. Mischievous, brilliant, full of self-satisfaction Crane.

She looked up at him and finally answered the question he’d asked. “A luxurious idea, Captain,” she said softly.

His eyebrows came together for a moment—only a very, very brief moment—before realization dawned and his mouth dropped open a little in wonder and shock.

But that, too, was brief. And it was replaced by the most devilish gleam and cocky smile she’d ever seen on his handsome face. (And that was saying a lot.)

“As you wish, Lieutenant,” he said, giving her one of his grand bows. “I am yours to command.”

She laughed a little and took his hand as they climbed the stairs. As he took the room key from her and unlocked the door, the voice in her head wasn’t Crane’s, but her own.

_And I am yours, Crane. All yours._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, been writing. 
> 
> In a slightly not-safe-for-work kind of way.
> 
> (Sorry not sorry. ;))

Ichabod’s hand shook a little as he pocketed the key and closed the door behind him.

Abbie had preceded him into the room and seemed to literally gleam as she moved through the room, the low-lit lamps’ light reflecting off the bronze, copper and gold in the amazing dress that didn’t come anywhere near to encompassing the beauty of she who wore it.

She’d mentioned luxury, and his traitorous, needy body had jumped to one and only one conclusion.

But it was so hard to discern what Abbie truly wanted of him. She was an enigma, in so many ways. An enigma he wanted desperately to study and understand.

Perhaps that was what drew him to her in the end. She was his constant source of curiosity and wonder.

He didn’t speak any of his thoughts, however, preferring to let her drive their course.

So, Ichabod merely stood at his normal ramrod straight posture, clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from moving, and contented himself with watching the woman who was so often defined by her stillness slide with fluid human grace across the large room.

First, it was one high-heeled gleaming bronze shoe and then another, kicked off in a careless fashion to the floor near the fireplace. Then, the clunk of metallic bracelets on the writing desk on the other side of the room, with the long, dangling earrings that had distracted him during a good portion of his meal soon following.

If she took the dress off, he knew he’d be finished. He was barely containing himself as it was.

Abbie tilted her head, looking at him through veiled lashes.

Again, he couldn’t get a read on her. He frowned a little as he tried to concentrate—to use his best skills in determining what exactly his lieutenant wanted. He…

Ichabod had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had barely taken notice that Abbie had crossed the room. And then, suddenly, she was in front of him, staring up at him, her dark eyes solemn.

“Miss Mills,” he managed to croak out, startled back into his formality.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she said quietly. “I could hear you thinking from all the way over there.”

He gave her a weak smile. “You know me altogether too well, Lieutenant.”

“And you know me, Crane.” She continued to hold his gaze with hers. “You don’t have to figure me out. You know me.” She laughed a little as she broke her gaze away and looked down at the floor. “You know me better than I know myself sometimes. It scares me a little.”

He frowned at that, finally freeing his hands, using one long, graceful finger to tilt Abbie’s chin upward. “Far be it from me to contradict you, Lieutenant, but it is I who often feel adrift when I try to understand you.” His gaze softened. “I feel as if I am filled with hopeless ineptitude with regard to anything involving you.” His voice grew husky as he continued, “I want to know you, Abigail Mills--intimately. I want to bury myself in the subject of you until my curiosity is sated.” He traced the line of her jaw, admiring its lean line, the smoothness of her skin and the paleness of his finger in contrast to the rich darkness of her cheek. “Only I fear,” he murmured, “that there is no sating for me.” A tremor shook his hand ever so slightly as his hand cupped her jaw. He could not stop touching her as his other hand wove its finger around a dark, springy tendril of hair that framed her beautiful face. “Every gem I mine from the wonder of you only deepens my interest further.”

A shudder ran through her, and Abbie closed her eyes, exhaling his name as almost a sigh. “Crane.”

“I dared not ever dream of what I truly wanted for months, Lieutenant.” He swallowed as her eyes fluttered open again. “And now….now that you have given me more than I could ever have hoped to obtain, I am at a loss as to how to proceed.” He exhaled, his heart galloping away within him. “Is it action? Is it words? I just do not know.”

She tilted her head, leaning into his hand, her eyes soft on his. “Crane,” she murmured.

“Perhaps I do think too much, Lieutenant. I spend so much time with the thoughts of my head that it is sometimes harder than you know for me to convey them.” He took a deep breath as he continued, “But so that you have no doubt concerning me, my dear, brave, beloved Lieutenant, I will say the words as plain as I can speak them. I love you. More than I, with all the words of two different centuries at my disposal, could ever express.” He smiled a little, and then the smile faded away as he let his hands fall at his side, the fingers twitching again with the emotions he didn’t really know how to convey any better.

Abbie’s eyes were luminous when they gazed into his. Sparkling with tears he knew it was difficult for her to let him see.

He didn’t know what to expect next. The rough, harsh words of “I fucking love you so much” still echoed in his mind--whirring there, sending out rays of light and sunshine into his battered heart. His life, his meaning all defined in one simple sentence from one amazing woman.

Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been two small, beautiful hands reaching up to pull his face down to hers. It hadn’t been a kiss of such raw power and hunger that grabbed at his soul and blanked out his mind to anything but the fierce press of her lips against his as she pushed him backward onto the large king-sized bed behind them.

He was lost. He was found.

Even his eidetic memory couldn’t keep up with the overwhelming, stunning assault on his senses that was Abigail Mills. He tried. He did. He tried to commit to memory the sweet smell of her neck, where the graceful slope met the curve of her shoulder. He tried to solidify the heavy, glorious weight of her breasts in his hands in his mind. He tried to take in and render permanent in his brain the devastating beauty of her body bared before him or the magnificent, splendid, soul-altering moment when he thrust forward and his body joined with hers.

But those memories would have to wait for another day. There was too much. Too much of it all. His heart broke with the sheer weight of the wonder of Abbie Mills becoming his in every sense of the word.

He bent over her, his face nestled against hers, his breath shallow and rapid as they moved in a rhythm as old as time. “Abbie,” he gasped. “My Abbie.”

A kaleidoscope of color passed in front of his eyes as he squeezed them shut and the shudders began to take over him. The undulating pressure of her body slamming against his and the beautiful sound of her breathy cries of his name in his ear swirled together with an array of pictures he’d never seen. Of himself in so many different moments of his life in this strange, new 21st century. Moments from _her_ eyes.

A warm wall of sheer affection and love bathed him as he collapsed on top of her. His ragged, harsh breathing was echoed by hers in his ear. She kissed the join of his neck to his shoulder. The kiss was hard, almost a bite, and possessive.

“My _man_ ,” she said, in a deep heartfelt sigh that was almost a groan.

He didn’t want to move. Not an inch away from her. Everything about him was sensitive and almost as if he’d been set ablaze.

Ichabod pushed himself up on his arms, staring down at her, certain that the stunned, amazed expression on the lieutenant’s face was an echo of his own.

The barrage of images still whirled through his mind. And then, they calmed, retreating, until all he could hear in his head was her. Emotion-filled and full of wondrous surprise.

_I love him so god-damned much._

He heard it as plainly as if she’d spoken it. In fact, he thought she _had_ spoken it until he realized he’d been searching and cataloging her face, and she’d never uttered a word aloud once.

And then his conscious mind came back with a two-footed thud. He searched her eyes, a worried frown etching between his own. _Were they…was she…_

In his mind, his curiosity took over. As it always did. He deliberately closed his mouth tightly, which made the lieutenant look at him, a strange expression on her beautiful face. Then, only in his mind, did he say, _Lieutenant? Is that you? Can you hear me?_

The look on her face then spoke volumes. Her eyes widened, her chest still rising rapidly up and down, coming off of the high she’d been on. That _they'd_ been on together.

_Oh, my god. Crane?_

He stared down into her shocked gaze for several moments before his mouth finally curved up into a wry smile.

“Well, shit,” Abbie said finally.

He stared at her for a moment before they both began to laugh. Ichabod leaned in and kissed her again as he slipped out of her, this time with all the leisure of an old, long-time lover. “I’m certain, Lieutenant, that we shall succeed in determining what this means for us as witnesses as we have succeeded in all else we have attempted so far.”

She gave him a skeptical look that slowly morphed into one of pleasure as he kissed a trail of soft kisses along the line of her jaw. “You’re just trying to distract me from the new scary, fuck-with-your-mind witness abilities,” she complained.

“Is it working?” he asked her as he suckled one firm, plump breast, watching as her eyes rolled back, and a deep groan echoed out from her lips.

Whispers from her mind beckoned to him. He backed away from their tempting beauty, however. He wanted it from her lips by her free will. Not stolen, unbidden from her brain.

“I thought you men were one and done,” she said, her eyes at half-mast, a lazy, sated look on her beloved face.

“No man allowed the glorious pleasures of your bed is ever ‘done’, Lieutenant,” he chided her.

She gave him a slow, self-satisfied smile. Abbie then cocked an eyebrow at him. “Ready for round two, then, Captain?”

Ichabod planted a kiss on her abdomen as he traveled down her body. “I am, as ever, at your command.”

And for a long time after that, there were no words. Only gasps, sighs, and groans of pleasure.

They didn’t need anything more than that.


	13. Chapter 13

Abbie's eyes blinked open to that dark-but-not-too-dark hour of the early morning, when the world was mostly asleep, but the sun was about to rise.

It took her a moment to figure out exactly where she was. The furniture was all in the wrong place, various shadowy lumps around the darkened room. The setting moon still cast a bit of a silvery glow, its light trickling in from the large picture window on the far side of the room.

She frowned, blinked again, and then her face softened as she saw the moonlight streak across the pale skin of Ichabod Crane.

He slept quite the opposite of how he was when he was awake. He'd rolled over at some point, stretched out on his stomach, and hadn't moved a muscle since then.

One long arm draped over the edge of the king-sized bed, and the other was tucked under his face on top of the large down-filled pillow. He was still and quiet, almost eerily so. Abbie leaned in, squinting in the dim light to make certain the large expanse of his muscled back rose and fell with regular breathing.

He inhaled then, shifting his body a little, and relieved her mind.

She worried sometimes about that. The idea that Ichabod Crane had whirled into her life and that fate or God or whoever was orchestrating all of this would whirl him right back out again, returning him back to the grave from which he'd come.

Abbie took in a shaky breath and reached out, needing to touch him--to feel the pulse of his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin.

Ever so gently, she pushed back a lock of his hair--brown, like hers, but in such a different way. Gold streaks in the brown, with a few stray silver ones hidden in the thick, heavy strands.

A few images played through her mind as she caressed his face. Scattered pictures--almost like a movie--but nothing she could make sense of.

Abbie smiled a little. Dreams didn't even make sense when you were awake and watching them.

A slight frown was developing on his handsome face. Abbie bit her lip and pulled her hand away, and his face smoothed. She sighed. Apparently her worry was breaking through to his mind as well.

"Great." She sighed again, curling up next to him, gazing at him as she lay there. All they needed was for him to have to take on her worries and fears along with his own.

_And you have to take on mine?_

Abbie heard the words clearly in her head, but there was no indication on Crane's sleeping face that he had sent them to her.

"If I wasn't crazy before, I will be now," she said ruefully. "I've already got him in my head on my own. Now this? For real?"

She knew she ought to be terrified. It had been bad enough to have months of Crane tromping around in her head, always there with her, never shutting up, always encouraging and exhorting--sometimes yelling and arguing with her. And that was a figment of her own imagination. This was reality. This was really and truly _him_.

But perhaps it was _because_ of that experience that she wasn't terrified. It was almost, somehow, comforting. That her imagination had just become reality.

Abbie spent several minutes just watching Crane sleep. The rise and fall of his chest, the messy locks of hair falling over his eyes, the ever-twitching hands still and silent.

It made her happy.

Abbie smiled a bit as she looked at him. They'd worn each other out with all they'd done. His back was covered in scratches, and there were several black and blue marks marring his pale skin.

She'd been a little obsessed with marking him--claiming him as hers. Abbie had been surprised at how very, very possessive she'd felt. How possessive she _still_ felt.

Usually, she was the one looking for an exit. It had always been important to be the one doing the leaving and not being the one abandoned and left behind. But with Crane, this time, she was...

Abbie waited for the familiar sense of panic to arise at the thought. But there wasn't any. Something had changed and settled in her. She knew him. He knew her. And this was it. This was all. This was everything. There was no turning back for either of them.

She shivered, but it was the shiver of anticipation and excitement rather than panic and dread. Abbie reached out for him again, running her hand along the strong line of his jaw. This time, words in some language that sounded like Spanish or Italian fluttered back. A bored schoolboy Ichabod conjugating verbs for a severe looking teacher.

_"Amo, ami, ama, amiamo, amate, amano."_

_"Good. Again. I love...?_

Abbie chuckled at the glare of death reflected on Crane's youthful face in the long mirror that hung in the large, sprawling schoolroom he was dreaming about. Seven-year-old schoolboys not interested in love but more interested in the sunny afternoon reflected in the window outside and the pleasures to be found outdoors.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, whispering in his ear, "Ti amo, Crane."

The schoolboy scene was wiped as if it had never been. Tropical breezes instead swayed the bending palm trees, and she saw herself suddenly clad in very little, beckoning him from some sort of hammock tied between two of the palms, her foot gently rocking it back and forth. _"Ti amo, Crane,"_ her dream self repeated. _"Ti amo."_

The last little bit was accompanied by a very, very dirty smile and a tilting reveal that she wore nothing but the red and black panty set she'd packed in her suitcase the day before.

"Oh, boy. Okay." Abbie pulled away, the image disappearing as she did so. "Give the man some privacy, Mills," she chided herself.

Still, she couldn't help but smile. "Like that set, do you, Crane?"

He didn't respond, so dead was he to the world.

It was actually rather marvelous to watch him asleep. Crane had been a soldier for so many years that he usually slept with one eye open, ready for danger and peril at any moment. But here, with her, he slept the sleep of the innocent. Full bodied, uncaring of his surroundings, and very very sound.

Abbie ran a hand lightly over his hair. "I've got you, baby," she said softly. "No one'll hurt you while I'm here."

The words were foreign to say, in some ways, but in others, they fit so very right. After all they'd been through to get to this point, there wasn't anything that could come through that door at that moment and take him from her. Not even God Himself.

He slept on, but she was wide awake, her mind too active and busy to sleep.

After another caress of his face, Abbie slid quietly off the bed, grabbing the first piece of clothing she found on the floor--his white formal dress shirt--and slipped it on over her head.

It was gargantuan on her. It took several rolls for her hands to even poke out of the edge of the sleeves, and the shirt came down nearly to her ankles. But it was soft, and it smelled of him--that indefinable mix of woods, books and something uniquely him, and it took away the slight chill the room's cooler temperature gave her body.

Abbie roamed restlessly through the room, slowly picking up their clothes and placing them more neatly on one of the chairs near the window. Then, as she leaned down to pick up Crane's kicked-off shoes, she saw the bright colored packets they'd been given as their special "clues" for achieving their goals in the dual locked rooms.

Abbie put Crane's envelope aside on one of the night tables, refusing to open it, even though she was truly tempted. Then, she turned her attention to her own envelope, carefully tearing through it.

But all her care was for nothing. All there was was a simple piece of paper that fluttered to the ground when she tilted the envelope to pull out what was inside.

With a frown, Abbie picked up the piece of paper and squinted at it in the silvery light.

"Party on, Wayne," she read out loud.

Abbie turned over the paper, half expecting to see "Party on, Garth!" on the other side. But it was blank.

"What the hell does that mean?" she muttered.

With disgust, she tossed her envelope and piece of paper down on the table on top of Crane's. And the temptation now was even stronger to open his envelope to see if he'd been given a better clue. Her fingers practically twitched with a very Crane-like twitch as she hesitated, glancing over at her still sleeping Crane. But before she could even decide whether to grab his yellow envelope or not, a thought flashed through her mind. _Wayne._

The voice in her head was Crane's again, but his voice was full of derision. She could see the man, looking much more alive and real than in the portrait in the room, a haughty expression on his face. She could actually feel Crane's dislike emanating from him as he watched Wayne talk to someone who looked very much like George Washington.

"Whoa. We don't even have to touch now?" Abbie said, a little alarmed at the prospect. The two of them had had several pleasurable experiments earlier, testing the limits of their sudden telepathy. It had appeared, at the time, that the telepathy only worked when they were in direct touching contact with each other. And it was never quite a free flowing, unstoppable thing until they were physically joined while having sex. Both of them seemed to be able to block each other from peeking if they were paying attention and were conscientious about it.

"I don't get it. Why now and why...?" Abbie's voice trailed off as she turned and realized that she'd bumped up against Crane's arm that was dangling over the side of the bed.

"Okay, okay. That's...yeah. Whew." Abbie moved away from Crane and the images vanished from her mind. But the connection with Crane suddenly brought things into focus.

She turned to stare at the portrait over the mantle. The portrait was good, based on what she'd seen from Crane's memory, but nothing to the quality of the one in Crane's room of him.

"Party on, Wayne," Abbie murmured as she walked across the room, her eyes all the time on the portrait. They'd been placed in the Wayne room for a reason. Maybe _his_ was the portrait of importance and not Crane's.

Over the next few minutes, Abbie was a blur of activity as she pulled over a chair to climb onto, carefully feeling around the portrait, looking for answers and clues. The portrait, however, seemed, after close inspection, much like any other portrait she'd ever seen. Painted on a canvas, fairly proportional and a bit less realistic than a photograph. The frame was trimmed with gold paint, and there didn't seem to be a way for her to move the large, heavy thing without at least getting Crane to help her.

Abbie sighed in frustration, finally giving up after several minutes of searching. She braced her hands on the mantle, peering as closely as she could for one last time, when she heard something whir and click into place.

Alarmed, she lost her balance, windmilling her arms, attempting to grab the mantle, but her feet got trapped in Crane's long shirt, and she fell backward, landing on the carpeted floor with a loud thud.

And this, of course, woke Crane immediately.

"Lieutenant?" he called out as he pushed himself up in the bed, blinking rapidly and squinting over at her in growing alarm. "What's happening? Lieutenant? Abbie? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Crane," Abbie said with a groan as she shifted and hissed as she hit a painful spot on her hip where she'd landed.

Crane paid no attention to her words as he threw back the covers and stalked over to her, naked as the day he was born. He crouched down, looking at her with concern in his blue eyes. "Are you hurt? What are you doing?"

His gaze quickly encompassed her covered almost head to toe in his rather voluminous shirt. She blushed a little under his gaze and at once was thankful that her skin was so dark and the room so dimly lit that he wouldn't be able to see the flush in her skin.

"Abbie?" he asked softly.

"I just tumbled. My pride's the biggest thing bruised," she said. "And I..." her voice trailed off as she looked past him toward the portrait.

Whatever she'd touched had worked its magic on the large painting. For instead of the picture of the self-important man she'd seen from Crane, there was an empty, dark passageway leading out of the room.

"Crane!" Abbie clutched his arm. "Oh, my god. Crane!"

A familiar look of worry flashed across Crane's face. "Lieutenant? Shall I call a doctor? Are you seriously injured?

"What? No. Crane. I told you." She gestured impatiently at him, cutting him off from his anxious diatribe. "Look, Crane. _Look!_

Crane finally followed her gaze, and his eyes widened. "Lieutenant! How extraordinary!"

"Let's see where it goes!" Abbie said as she pulled up Crane's shirt, struggling to get to her feet.

But before she could move more than an inch or two, Crane's hand grabbed her arm and pulled her short. She looked at him with impatience, but the frown on his face stopped her from moving. "What?"

"We have no idea where that passage leads, Abbie, and neither of us are dressed for such an escapade," he said wryly.

"Let's get dressed, then, Crane, and explore it!" Abbie pointed over to the nightstand near the bed where she'd dropped her ripped envelope. "My clue lead me to the portrait. It's part of the mystery."

"A mystery that has many concerning factors to it," he reminded her. "I told you earlier about what we had to do to escape that room downstairs."

"And you were so sorry about having to light fireworks and watch them go off," Abbie said dryly.

A grin flashed across Crane's face. "It was rather enjoyable, I must admit."

Abbie couldn't help it. She leaned over and kissed him rather soundly before she stepped back and waved toward the open passage. "This might not even be available once the morning comes around. And I don't even know how I really opened the thing in the first place. We might not have another opportunity to search."

Crane stared at her for a few moments before he sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "This is rather a switch, Lieutenant. You are usually the voice of reason in these situations."

"Maybe I'm just feeling..." Abbie hesitated, thinking a moment before she continued, "I'm just feeling in a risk-taking kind of mood." Her mouth curved up into a smile. "My latest risk-taking turned out so very, very well after all."

That devilish, almost sinful look of Crane's that she had seen several times over the past few hours made another appearance on his handsome face. "And you would rather go tromping through a passage to God knows where rather than doing more risk-taking of a carnal sort of nature?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

It was so funny the way that Crane was so blithely unconscious of his nakedness in that moment. Abbie knew that if anyone had asked her a week ago how Crane would be in this sort of situation, she would have said he would have been blushing, wrapped head-to-toe in some sort of colonial dressing gown, and stammering about propriety. She never would have expected an entire conversation between them with her in his shirt and him in nothing at all with no embarrasment whatsoever.

But Crane had been surprising her since she'd first met him. It stood to reason that he'd surprise her here, too.

Abbie knelt down in front of him, reaching forward to cup his face in her hands. His eyes softened as he looked her and she knew that he was now expecting some sort of sweet, lovey-dovey sort of response from her.

Instead of that, however, Abbie leaned forward, stopping with her lips less than an inch away from his and said, "You have no idea how many times I've imagined us up against those damned tunnel walls taking so many carnal risks that we have bricks falling all around us."

Crane's eyes widened as they met hers and then the sinful look was back, even more devious than before. "It's nice to know that our imaginations are so very similar, Miss Mills," he drawled.

Her eyebrow winged upward, and his did as well in response. The images flooding back and forth between them of different imagined scenarios were quite graphic and sent a spiral of heat through her that she could not wait to satisfy.

"Tell you what, Crane," Abbie said as she tucked one of his longer locks behind the curve of his ear. "You get dressed and come with me into the passageway behind the portrait..." She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "...and you can pick your favorite tunnel fantasy and live it out in full, glorious, carnal color." Abbie then leaned back, trying to match his sinful smile with one of her own of equal devilry.

Crane's mouth slowly curved up, and his blue eyes gleamed. "Shall we seal our accord, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," she said simply as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled his face to hers. "We should," she whispered.

His kiss was a long one, full of tongue and teeth that sent her heart racing and her mind blanking. It took Abbie several moments to come back to herself and convince her suddenly aching, needy body that she shouldn't just pull up his shirt and take him right there on the floor.

Finally, she pushed him away. "Get dressed, Crane," she said, a lot more breathily than she would have liked.

Crane gave her a look of disapproval, which she ignored as she gathered up the ends of his shirt and carefully got to her feet.

"C'mon, Crane. We've got exploring to do," she said. "And breakfast is not that far off, so we need to get cracking." She gestured toward the bathroom door. "I'll even let you get in there first." 

Crane frowned for a moment but finally acquiesced. He walked across the room toward the bathroom door, and Abbie shamelessly watched him go, her mouth watering a bit at the sight of his broad shoulders and very nice, firm ass.

He stopped at the door and turned around to give her a look. "The tunnel fantasy is a long one, Lieutenant." He raised an eyebrow in challenge. "I hope you are prepared."

"I was born ready, Crane," she said with a glint in her own eyes.

A grin flashed across his face at her answer. She didn't, however, let him respond out loud. She shooed him away with her hands. And so finally, he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Abbie turned on one of the lamps on the table near the door and walked over to her suitcase to grab new clothes. The splash of water in the bathroom didn't last very long. In what seemed like hardly any time at all, Crane opened the door to the bathroom, walking out in one of his normal breeches, carrying socks, his coat, a shirt and his boots in hand. He gestured toward the bathroom. "All yours, Lieutenant."

She smiled and thanked him as she crossed the room with her own pile of clothes. Her own ablutions were quick as well, but she didn't go out of the bathroom to dress. For she wanted to surprise him.

The last thing Abbie tugged on was one of her form-fitting t-shirts, which was pulled down over a delicate red bra with black lacy overlay.

And she smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a little more intense than I was intending. But I tend to wander around in character's psyches too much. *grin*
> 
> Not sure what that says about me, but I enjoy it. *grin*
> 
> Hope you do, too!

If Ichabod had given any thought to how the morning would go, it certainly wouldn't have started being startled from sleep and given one shock to his body after another.

It had been over three years since he'd awoken in the 18th century--away from the constant stress and terror of Washington's battlefields--but he still struggled sometimes with sudden noises that had him reaching for a musket that was no longer there to grab.

It certainly didn't help matters that he had found himself thrown into a similar 21st century battlefield. The opponents might look different than the British redcoats he'd fought so long ago, but the struggles within him were still the same.

His heart still ached over the senseless loss of Miss Caroline, the woman who'd been so sweet to him and a fond connection to a time he could no longer reach. Or the dastardly, twisted murder of his friend at the historical society who'd opened up his life to both him and to Katrina. And there were no words about the grief he still felt inside over the death of Joe Corbin--his brother in arms.

Ichabod slipped his coat on over his shoulders, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Death had always been an accepted reality in his time. So many people died for what he now saw had been preventable reasons. Lack of knowledge of sanitation. Lack of refrigeration. Disease. Famine. War. To live to an old age made you a rarity.

In this time, though, the search was ever to extend the life. An obsession with holding on to the present for as long as humanly possible. His head swam with the realities of amazing medicines, the treatment of mental patients, the attempts to clean the water and the environment and the abundance of food and shelter for so many people. He marveled at people living to 70, 80...even 100 years old or more.

Death, to this century, was an insult not to be borne. Not a natural rhythm of life to be accepted.

It was ironic, then, to see that he, the relic from the 18th century, had come to adopt this idea as his own. Fighting to protect and prevent the sacrifice of his own life and the lives of those around him. Whereas Abbie, in every way a 21st century woman, took the mindset of those in his time. Death was inevitable. Sacrifice gave life meaning. If her death meant the saving of others, the sacrifice was worth it.

Perhaps once he'd felt that way. There had been nothing so dear as the mission. And in the end, he'd sacrificed everything for it: his fealty to England, his family, Mary, Katrina, Jeremy...even his own life.

But he'd been given a second chance at life. And he was certain now that Abbie surpassed the mission in importance for him.

Ichabod let out a shaky breath. He knew that when forced to make a decision between letting Abbie sacrifice herself again and saving the world, he would be very hard pressed not to let the world go to hell if it meant Abbie herself would be saved.

Not a great revelation to have about oneself, to be sure.

"And certainly not one a witness of God should have," he whispered.

Abbie came out of the bathroom, then, attired as she often was--black pants that clung lovingly to her thighs and a tight, snuggly fitting t-shirt that emphasized her bountiful bosom. It was impossible to pay attention to much of anything when such a temptation as the lieutenant was in his sights.

"What shouldn't a witness of God have?" she asked as she pulled one of her leather jackets on over her shoulders. 

Ichabod blinked a couple of times, his line of thought completely derailed. "Pardon?"

"You were talking to yourself about what a witness of God shouldn't have," she prompted him. "A bit heavy of a subject for your mind to be wandering to, considering I've only been gone for a few minutes."

Rather than answer her, Ichabod attempted distraction instead. "A few minutes? It's certainly been longer than that. You took a shower. That was at least ten minutes of time."

Abbie just looked at him, her brown eyes assessing him. He half expected her to grab one of his hands to get at what he actually was thinking. If he was honest with himself, Ichabod admitted he'd likely have tried that, had their roles been reversed.

But his lieutenant just stood in front of him in her stocking feet, so small but so mighty as she looked up at him. "No secrets, Crane. None. There isn't anything left to hide from each other." She gave him a rueful smile. "God knows you've seen all the dark there is inside of me." The smile slowly left her face, leaving it more serious and focused. "I can handle your shit, Crane. Whatever it is."

Ichabod laughed, although the laugh was rather dry and brittle. "You are, lieutenant, far stronger than anyone gives you credit for. You can handle anything that is sent your way. It is I who is the one whose strength fails when it counts."

Abbie immediately frowned. "Crane," she said, her tone disapproving.

"You want to know what I was thinking?" he asked. Ichabod didn't let her respond before he continued, "I was thinking that I would rather sacrifice the world to Moloch and his demons than to let you sacrifice your life again to save it." He looked down at the floor, his mind in a tumult, before he met her eyes again. "I never understood. I never once understood what sacrifice truly meant. I gave up England, my family, my wife, my son and my life to fight evil. And I gave them all up gladly." Roiling emotion surged through him, choking his voice and peppering his eyes with tears. "But life without you is agony, Lieutenant. I am the most tortured of the damned without you." He swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides, as he whispered, "I do not think I have the courage to follow the path of a witness to its natural end. I care little for myself, Abbie. But to watch you die, Lieutenant...I cannot. I _cannot_."

Abbie took a deep breath before she looked up at him, her eyes earnest and serious. "We don't know what the future holds, Crane. Even were we not witnesses fighting in the fight against evil, there are so many things that could happen to us. Cancer. Being at the bank during a hold-up and getting shot. Getting hit by a bus. We just don't know what will happen."

She reached out and took his hand then, and Ichabod felt a huge galestorm of emotion come hurtling out of her toward him. Love, understanding, affection and a few drops of exasperation that were so Abbie that they made him smile a bit.

"All I know, Crane, is that we have this life, this moment. We need to enjoy and appreciate what we're given now. If we think about the future and all we're gonna lose, they'll have to lock us up because there won't be enough space in the world for all our crazy." She gave him a look as she tightened her fingers around his. "I've tried the medicated route, Crane. I've run from my life. I've run from what all this means. I've run from Jenny, from my past, from this crazy, messed up witness thing, and I've run from you."

She looked up at him then, her face fierce. "I'm done running, Crane." Her grip on his hands was almost painful in its intensity. " _You're_ done running. We're witnesses. Yes. And it fucking sucks most of the time to be a witness. Half the time, we don't know what we're doing, and it feels like we're completely winging it with _no_ help from the Big Guy upstairs.

"But you know what?" she demanded. "Without being a witness, you'd be dead on a battlefield in 1781. I'd never have known you. I'd never have mended fences with my sister or Joe. And I would have died along with the rest of the world when Moloch escaped from fucking purgatory."

Abbie shook her head. "If I know anything from all of this, it's that the sacrifices always mean something in the end. Our sacrifices _mean_ something. They're important, and they make the world a better place."

She looked up at him again and spoke, her voice growing husky and hoarse. "I'm gonna love you like no one has ever fucking loved you here on earth as long as He lets me stay here. And then I'm gonna love you even more after we're dead." She gave him another fierce look. "That's how we win, Ichabod Crane. Love." A single tear rolled down her cheek as she whispered, "I'm not afraid to die, Crane. Any sacrifice we've made is gonna be worth it, because I will get your skinny white ass with me in eternity. And that is all I want. And if the world gets saved in the meantime, all the better."

Ichabod felt tears prick at his own eyes as he looked down at her. "God knows I do not deserve you, Abigail Mills."

"He knows I don't deserve you either, Crane," she said, half-laughing, half-crying. "But He gave me you anyway, and I am not letting you go. Not in this life or the next. Hear me?"

"Heard and understood with every fiber of my being, Lieutenant," he said.

"You and your damned fancy words, Captain," Abbie said as she finally let go of his hands to snake up and pull his face down to hers.

Ichabod didn't think he'd ever get used to the maelstrom of feeling that burst through him from her to him and from him to her when they kissed like this. It was raw love, unfettered and unrestrained, no holds barred and all pretense gone.

Perhaps God knew that a love like this could only last so long in a place such as earth. Perhaps it needed the full glory of eternity to be truly expressed.

Ichabod hoisted her up and the lieutenant's strong legs wrapped around his waist. His mind only had one focus in that moment. Getting as close to Abbie as humanly possible.

He pressed his body into hers, his arms wrapped tightly around her back, her hands threading through his hair, and he walked slowly but inexorably toward the unmade bed behind them.

But suddenly, the pressure of her legs around his waist lessened, and Abbie let her legs swing to the ground. A groan of protest burbled out of him before he had a chance to think. She pushed away from him and stumbled backward, her chest heaving.

He turned to stare at her, a glorious sight in his eyes. Her dark eyes glazed with passion, her hands shakily pushing away dark ringlets of hair that had fallen into her face. The rise and fall of that magnificent bosom made his hands twitch with the anticipation of holding it, measuring it, tasting it.

Involuntarily, Ichabod took a step toward her, and she stepped back, shaking her head. "Focus, Crane," she said, her voice breathy, almost girlish--a deliciously feminine concoction.

"I'm trying," he muttered, his eyes not reaching hers. His gaze, instead, couldn't determine what to feast on first. Her delectable chest, yes. Those incredible hands that had done things to his nether regions he hadn't believed possible. Oh, yes. The thighs that had locked around his, leaving bruises in their boisterous enthusiasm. Oh, God, yes.

"Crane," she said with a laugh, shaking a small finger at him. "I promise you. Later. But now we've got a passage to check out, remember?"

Ichabod frowned. The last thing he felt like doing was exploring some dimly lit passage leading God knew where. "I have an eidetic memory. I remember everything," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What I focus on, however..."

"What you focus on is the task at hand," Abbie said firmly. Ignoring his frown, Abbie instead pulled on her boots and grabbed the ornate-looking desk chair and dragged it over in front of the fireplace. She nimbly climbed onto the seat, peering into the dark passageway before Ichabod had had a chance to scramble together some semblance of rational thought.

"Lieutenant!" he protested, finally galvanized into action as Abbie hoisted herself up on the mantle and half pushed herself, half fell into the passage.

She stood up a moment later, brushing dust off of her shapely rear end. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Coming, Captain?"

He made no effort to follow her, however, glaring at her from the center of the room. "Is there a source of light, Lieutenant? Or shall we be stumbling around in the dark? What happens if the portrait closes again? Will we be able to obtain egress from the passage from the inside?"

Abbie looked at him for a moment or two before she sighed. "Good points all, Crane." She frowned as she looked around the inside edge of the doorway, feeling around the wall. "Get the flashlights out of my bag, Crane." She gestured toward her suitcase before she continued pressing against the wall with her hands, looking for some sort of switch or mechanism.

"You thought to pack torches, then, Lieutenant? How very wise of you," Ichabod said approvingly as he walked across the room to her bag, gingerly rummaging through its contents before finally finding two industrial grade flashlights tucked into the bottom of the bag. "No wonder this bag was considerably heavier than I thought it should be."

Abbie grinned at him. "Like I said, Crane. Born ready."

Ichabod returned over to the portrait and handed up a flashlight to Abbie, who used it to shine around inside the passageway.

"Not seeing something obvious. Maybe the portrait needs to be closed before I can see it?" she mused.

"How did you open it in the first place?" he asked. "I'm not closing the passageway until I determine that it can again be opened."

Abbie squatted down, peering at the mantle. "I grabbed the mantle when I lost my balance. Something clicked when I did that. So there's probably something in the mantle itself. A button or a switch or something."

Ichabod ran his hand along the mantle, feeling mostly smooth, painted wood. He reached about two thirds of the way across when he felt a slight difference. A notch of some sort. He pressed it, and the same click Abbie had described happened again. However, as the portrait was already swung away from the wall, nothing new happened.

"Try closing it, Crane. I'll look and see where it latches."

Abbie moved a few steps back away from the entrance as Ichabod reached for the portrait, his fingers curving around its gilded edge. "Have a care, Abbie," he said softly.

"I won't move from this spot," Abbie replied with the hint of a smile on her lips. "I promise."

With a reluctance he could almost taste, Ichabod gently swung the portrait back toward the wall, watching his Abbie disappear from view. It closed into place with a gentle snick.

Tension shot through him as he waited. "What have you, Lieutenant?" he called out.

"I think I might have found it," her muted voice replied. "It's a little stuck, though. Probably needs oiling or something."

Ichabod waited a few moments more--seconds passed into a full minute. A frown began to develop on his face, and his fingers twitched on the notch in the mantle, which he hovered near to. "If you haven't found it by now, Lieutenant..."

"You're giving up too easily, Crane," Abbie's voice floated back with just a smidgen of exasperation. "Just give me..."

The portrait suddenly popped open, and Abbie stood in the doorway, a smirk on her face. "...a minute," she concluded.

He didn't return the grin but merely stepped onto the chair and pulled himself up into the passageway, stooping his head a little as he rose from his crouching position and straightened to his full height.

"A piece of cake," Abbie said, a smile twitching on her lips. "See, Crane? Nothing to worry about."

Ichabod did not respond but instead wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. The fact that his overreaction of worry and fear pulsed through from him to her did not escape him, but he could not keep himself distant from her in that moment. A deep, irrational part of himself was ever fearful that one day, she would disappear for good. No getting her back. No second chances. Touching her was the only way he could reassure himself that she was safe.

The smile slipped away from her face as she looked up at him. "Crane," she chided him softly.

"I know, Lieutenant," he said shortly, not looking at her, but not letting go. "I know. But right now, in this moment, I cannot help myself."

Abbie smiled a little, then, and let her arm steal around his waist. For several moments, they just stood there in the darkness of the passageway, Abbie's flashlight beam trailing on the floor, and he hungrily breathed in the sunshine and love of Abbie, transferred from her mind to his.

Finally, he exhaled and gave her a bit of a rueful smile. "I could get far too accustomed to this melding of our minds, Lieutenant."

She squeezed him and then let go, swinging her flashlight around the inside of the chamber they were in. "I'm already there, Crane. It's my life--you in my head." She slid a glance at him. "This is gravy, 'cause it's real this time."

He sighed then, rubbing a hand across his cheek as he flicked on his own flashlight with his other hand. "I hope my real self serves you as well as the imaginary one did."

Abbie gave him a half smile. "I told you I wanted eternity with you, Crane." She shrugged. "You know where I stand."

"A fortunate happenstance for me." Crane affected a light tone as he replied, "For I planned to dog your steps throughout eternity whether you wanted me or not."

Abbie laughed. "That's settled, then," she said, sounding to Ichabod's ears, pleased with him, herself and the world.

He always liked that sound.

With his emotions back on an even keel again, Ichabod swung his flashlight around the chamber in which they stood. The only potential points of egress were the doorway back to Abbie's bed chamber and a narrow, winding staircase that disappeared downward. He raised an eyebrow at Abbie and gestured toward the stairs. "Shall we?"

Abbie gestured toward the staircase with a smile. "After you, Captain."

Meanwhile...

The man leaned back in his chair, watching the feed from the security camera in the Wayne room fade to black. Finally. _Finally._ After years and years of waiting, he'd located the two witnesses.

And he found himself rather intrigued by Agent Abigail Mills. She was the only one of the six who had followed the clue he'd given them. And this even after, what he was told from his security staff, was a rather intense, passionate interlude between Agent Mills and her partner that had continued for several hours.

A smile lurked on his face, his mind lost for a few moments in the past, remembering that first night with her. A night where hours had flown like the wind. A night spent learning each other's bodies and rhythms, falling more in love with every thrust of his body into hers. He envied Ichabod Crane the sublime experience. It was like no other.

Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the screen, redirecting his attention to a different camera. They were in the south passage now. The first tests could begin.

He waited a few moments, watching as they carefully made their way down the staircase. Once they'd reached the bottom, he leaned over his console and flipped a switch.

A solid steel door slid silently into place, closing off the Wayne room from the view of the chamber.

The portrait in front of it swung back, snicking closed.

"Let the games begin," he murmured.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't exactly super romantic, but I did want to have something for the Ichabbie Valentine's extravaganza. :)
> 
> Ichabbie always! :)

The stairway was one of those winding, tight cylindrical things that reminded Abbie of the climb up to the top of the Statue of Liberty. She'd never been claustrophobic, but she remembered breathing in a sigh of relief when she'd reached the crown of old Lady Liberty and could look out through the small windows onto the water surrounding the island and see space larger than the behind of the person directly in front of you.

Crane never confessed to it, but she knew after his experience in being buried underground that he much preferred the open air and skies around him to any small, claustrophobic sort of place. Descending down this staircase with only a flashlight to light the way certainly wasn't going to be on his favorite things to do ever.

But Crane was, at heart, a soldier. He strode forth and did what his commanding officer bade him do. He was loyal that way, her Crane. Loyal to Washington and Betsy Ross, loyal to Jefferson and even Franklin, and loyal to her.

She didn't really consider herself his commanding officer. They were partners. Equals. Each of them brought something different to the fight against evil. But they trusted each other's direction. Even when they didn't always agree.

As Crane descended the last stair and held out his hand to Abbie to help her onto the level ground, she felt his apprehension humming through his fingers to hers. He dropped his hand as soon as she was safely on _terra firma_ again. Abbie didn't want to admit that the feel of his hand in hers helped keep the nervous energy coursing through her body at a tolerable level. But, she thought to herself, perhaps he didn't want to admit his fear to her.

She smiled wryly to herself in the dark landing of the staircase. While telepathy had its perks, it also had its downsides.

Crane, in the meantime, was shining his flashlight around the dark room they'd ended in. The walls were simple: white drywall, freshly painted, by the lack of marks, dust or any other signs of age on them. The floor was cement, also looking pretty fresh.

"New walls and floor?" Crane asked, shining his flashlight around, highlighting the cement staircase leading upward before he made another swing around the room.

"Looks like it," she agreed. She shone her flashlight toward the other side of the room, stopping periodically on a wall to see if some sort of light switch would give them a way to have light permeate the suffocating darkness of the room. "See anything interesting?"

"Just the exit over there," Crane replied, gesturing with his beam toward the other exit from the room. "This room appears to be merely a landing for the staircase."

"No light switches anywhere, huh?" Abbie asked, stepping a little more closely toward Crane. She barely recognized that she was doing it at all. Whenever they thought danger might be near, the two of them immediately gravitated toward each other, both in a defensive, protective mode. She could already hear the stride of Crane's boots as he came over to her side.

She smiled a bit at this. Just a bit. Telepathy was nice, but the fact was that Crane was already so attuned to her and she to him that telepathy was almost irrelevant.

Crane bumped into her side as he reached her, and a swirl of emotions passed from him to her. Apprehension, anxiety, and a fierce desire to close those emotions off from her.

"Apologies," he murmured, as he stepped slightly away from her, directing his flashlight toward the darkened hallway.

"I'm nervous, too, Crane," Abbie said quietly, reaching out to grab his hand and wrap it in hers. "It's good mojo, you know, being afraid. Keeps us on guard. Defenses up. We're better prepared for whatever might happen." 

She could feel the battle raging inside him and marveled at it. He was always so contained on the outside. Cranky, yes. Long-winded and arrogant, sure. But very careful about himself and his propriety. Years of being schooled in upper crust aristocratic ways, rigid gender roles, and a formality that kept his language slightly archaic and his back ramrod straight. He was emotional and fluid in his language, but it was always outwardly focused. Worried about Katrina, in a rage over his son, batshit crazy over losing her as his partner. But for himself, he rarely let emotion shine through.

And based on the overwhelming forceful swirl of chaos, there was a lot of emotion going on underneath her man's skin.

"Let. me. in."She wasn't good with words. She was brusque and terse. And Abbie knew she had no ground to stand on about letting people in and letting emotions flow.

But he needed this. He needed her. And he was going to have her. Whether he wanted it or not.

Abbie could feel his anxiety spike. Every instinct in him was urging him to flee. And yet, his hand stayed resolutely in hers.

Abbie smiled.

"Hallway?" she said, keeping her voice light.

"Indeed," he replied.

They walked hand-in-hand toward the dark opening that led out of the narrow enclosure around the staircase.

As soon as they stepped out into the darkness, they found themselves blinking in sudden light.

Apparently, some sort of motion detector activated the lights in the hallways. She and Crane both stood, blinking for a few moments, until their eyes adjusted to the light. They both then switched off their flashlights, and Crane let go of her hand, frowning as he looked around the hallway.

It was a long, extended hallway, richly decorated in rather stark contrast to the small room they'd just left. 

A thick, rich, expensive-looking Turkish carpet rolled from one end of the hallway all the way to the opposite end of the hallway, its beautiful pattern of reds and golds giving the hall a quiet, understated elegance. Tables of some sort of real wood - cherry, perhaps - were scattered in various places, adorned with soft-glowing lamps that appeared Victorian-era old but were obviously cleverly designed with electricity instead of gas or a candle. Vases and decorative knickknacks, and beautiful paintings of various Greek gods and goddesses finished off the hallway's decor.

The only other significant feature were eight closed doors off the hallway.

Abbie looked around in wide-eyed wonder. "Jeez, Crane. Would you just look at this place?"

Crane ran a finger along the edge of one of the red porcelain vase closest to them. "Ming dynasty, if I'm not mistaken," he said quietly.

"Ming dynasty? As in 15th century Ming dynasty?" Abbie batted his hand away. "Don't _touch_ that, Crane. We cannot afford to replace Ming freaking Dynasty vases."

Crane rolled his eyes at her. "My father had three Ming dynasty vases in our home in Scotland, one given to him by some wealthy relative on the occasion of the birth of each of his sons. None of them were ever broken." He smirked at her. "Even with three rambunctious boys on the estate."

"Your father probably kept them under lock and key in some cabinet where you and your brothers weren't allowed in." Abbie glowered at him until he finally, obligingly with his hands up, moved away from the table with the porcelain vase. "That's what I would have done, anyway."

"If it makes you nervous to think about it, perhaps your mind would be more happily occupied with the idea that my brothers and I spent more time throwing rocks at the Rembrant portrait in the gallery." He smiled a bit, in remembrance. "An ugly witch of a subject. Scraggly hair, scowling face..." He gestured at her. "Similar expression to the one you have on your face currently, Lieutenant."

"Don't talk. Anymore." At the sight of him gearing up for protest, Abbie held up her hand. "Tell me cute stories about you and your brothers once we are out of 'give Abbie a Visa heart attack' land." She then waved toward the hallway. "Pick a damned door to go explore so we don't have to stand out here and be responsible for breaking something."

The smallest twitch of his lips indicated that Crane was having trouble holding back either (a) a tirade or (b) laughter. Neither boded well for him in that moment. She was, frankly, relieved, when he merely tilted his head toward the first door on the right and opened it.

Normally, he would play the gentleman and allow her to precede him. But as it was possibly dangerous, Crane did the protective thing he always chose to do, and walked into the room first.

Abbie wasn't paying attention to Crane as she walked forward, because she was staring in awe at the majestic, overwhelming room in which they'd just entered.

Rows and rows of books lined the walls. The old fashioned kind of books. Hard covers. Bound in leather. Some with decorative gold on their bindings. A curved, obviously hand-carved ladder leading up to some of the upper levels of books. A large marble fireplace crackled merrily with a small, comfortable flame at one end of the room, flanked by two of the most comfortable-looking chairs she'd ever seen. High backed and soft appearing. A tea set nestled between them. She could almost smell the scent of Earl Grey in the air.

"God, Crane. It's like walking into Beauty and the Beast!" Abbie enthused. "Would you look at this place? You must be in Heaven right now."

Abbie turned, a beaming smile on her face, which immediately vanished upon seeing the expression on Crane's.

He'd paled. Significantly. Even in the lower light of the room with its flickering candles, she could see that. His hand was outstretched, just a bit, and he made a choking sound.

"Crane? What's wrong? What's going on?" Abbie demanded as she stepped closer to him. She was about to reach out and touch him, but he flinched as she tried. A strong sense of there being a barrier there she dare not cross made her drop her hand.

She swallowed and tried again, her voice gentler. "Crane?"

He didn't answer her, however. His gaze was fixed on the fireplace.

So Abbie followed his gaze, frowning as she studied the two high-backed chairs. Then, her eyebrows rose in surprise as she realized that she and Crane were not alone in the room.

"Be a dear and grab my shawl from the other room, won't you?"

The voice was soft but had the tone of someone who would brook no dissent. Abbie's eyes widened as she saw the man in the right chair rise to his feet, grumbling in a way that seemed way too familiar.

"Damned shawl. You haven't wanted a damned shawl for months. You're just getting rid of me, Sarah. Is my company so poor?"

The man stood, scowling down at the woman in the chair, his 18th century coat in pressed, military-precision correctness. His iron gray hair was tied back in one of the leather strips Crane had told her was a queue. He was of average height with sharp, hawkish features and a rather sturdy, muscular build. Nothing at all of Ichabod Crane in the man. Not his looks, anyway.

But the irritated grumbling--the thread of deep caring that ran underneath the bark of the voice, that was all Crane.

Abbie's gaze whipped back to Crane. His gaze was fixed on the man who surely had to be his father. "Oh, Crane," she whispered.

"Just go and get the shawl, Richard," came the gentle rebuke. "I can be by myself for the few minutes it takes you to fetch it."

"Don't know why you can't get Mary or Josephine to run and fetch it for you," he grumbled, even as he began striding over toward where she and Crane were standing.

Crane swallowed as the man got closer to them. He licked his lips as if they had dried suddenly, and then opened his mouth to speak. But no words came.

Richard Crane kept walking, stalking in long strides toward the door behind them. No glimmer of recognition crossed the man's face. It was as if he either was determined to ignore them or, as Abbie suspected, he couldn't see them.

He hesitated, ever so briefly, at the door to the hallway, and Abbie saw a look of pain and misery cross the man's face, ever so briefly, before he squared his shoulders and exited the room.

Abbie didn't even want to look in Crane's direction. She knew. She just knew the agony that would be there. Not anything overt. But a quiet, hopelessness. A wound that she knew had never quite healed that had suddenly, ruthlessly, been ripped back open.

She finally turned to look at him, but he was no longer watching where his father had been. Instead, he had stepped forward, uneasily, haltingly, toward the figure curled up on the opposite chair.

Abbie followed him, her heart breaking a little more with every step. They finally reached the two chairs in front of the fire, and Ichabod sank into the one his father had just vacated, a hungry, almost desperate look crossing his beloved face.

Abbie stood next to Crane, her curiosity grappling with her reluctance to step into this space--this Crane space. And then it was that she saw where Crane had come from.

His mother was tall and had the same slender build as her son. Crane's long nose was more feminine looking on his mother's face, but it matched his, line for line. Her silver hair wound down into a long braid rather than piled up on her head, as she thought the styles had been back then. She was the epitome of her son in all but the dark brown eyes that stared sadly into the crackling fire.

Sarah Crane was dying. Even to an untrained eye such as Abbie's, it was patently obvious. And Abbie could see in that moment why Richard had been so reluctant to leave the room. The likelihood that Sarah had sent him away in order to die alone seemed strong.

Abbie's eyes pricked with tears, and her throat hurt with the effort of repressing the words that seemed to be bursting to get out. The only time Crane had ever mentioned his mother was to say briefly that she'd died of consumption six months after he'd been sent as a British soldier to the Colonies. Perhaps that was true, in some clinical sense of the words, but Abbie rather suspected, looking at Sarah Crane's grief-filled face, that she'd died of a broken heart.

"Mama," Crane whispered.

Sarah took in a breath that rattled. It hurt to hear it. She pulled at the blanket around her legs, almost absentmindedly. She didn't look afraid about what was clearly coming. She just looked...sad. "I wish I'd told you, mine own," she said in that same, soft voice. "Jane told me I should have warned you--given you the tools you needed." The rattle was greater now. "But I couldn't bear it," she whispered. "My sunny little boy burdened with the knowledge of what was ahead for him. I couldn't bear it."

Crane made another choking noise, and Abbie's hands itched to reach out to him--itched to soothe the pain she could hear in his voice and see in his anguished blue eyes. But Crane fairly vibrated with a desperate, quickly thrown-up barrier of "no trespassing". So she waited, her fingernails drawing blood as they dug into her palms, trying to stifle the urge to violate the barrier and hold him.

"Forgive me, my darling," she whispered. "Forgive me."

Crane couldn't help himself then. He reached out to his mother, a raw cry bursting from his throat.

But his mother never heard him. Whether she would have been able to or not made no difference now. Sarah Crane was beyond hearing.

Crane reached for his mother's hand, but as Abbie had suspected it might, his hand merely fell through it. She was a mirage--an image from the past--replayed in the room to torture her son.

He recoiled almost immediately, falling back into the chair that was as real as his mother was not.

A hard grim determination settled onto Abbie's shoulders. She grabbed Crane's hand and nearly buckled from the weight of grief that immediately transferred from him to her. She threw up a mental block as she tugged on his hand. "Let's get out of here, Crane. Whoever this sick bastard is is going to pay for this. I will make him pay."

Crane didn't move, however. His blue-eyed gaze was stuck on his mother.

"Crane," she urged.

Crane still did not move.

In frustration, Abbie threw down his hand and stormed across the room. She pulled on the door, but it would not open. A steady stream of curses immediately stumbled out of her mouth. Curses from her childhood, curses from the officers she knew and even a few archaic 18th century curses she'd learned from Crane came out in colorful abandon.

With reckless abandon, Abbie began to run around the room, pushing on walls and windows, furniture and floors, looking for another way out. Everything, it seemed, appeared to be a hologram or mirage of sorts. Nothing was real other than the chair in which Crane sat, and her and Crane.

Finally, Abbie blindly reached for the nearest object, wanting to throw something to expend some of the pent-up grief and anger burbling inside of her. She hefted the large, silver candlestick in her hand and threw it with all her might at the closed oak door. It turned over and over in the air, its flame whisking out, wax spattering in its wake.

When it reached the door, however, it hit its target and the large door swung gently open. The candlestick rolled harmlessly out into the hallway, its candle broken in half.

Abbie then ran over to Crane and yanked him out of the chair. He seemed to startle and come back to himself. "Abbie?" he croaked. 

"We have to go, Crane. We have to get out of here." With a determined stride, she half pulled, half dragged Crane across the room and out into the hallway.

As soon as they stepped through the threshold, the room vanished from view and the door closed very firmly behind them. Abbie shook her head. "We are going back upstairs. Now."

Crane looked too shellshocked to respond, but Abbie pushed him toward the passageway at the end of the hallway, only to notice in dismay that the entrance back to the stairs was gone. All that remained was a matching, beautifully painted wall with a portrait of a smiling cherub on it.

"What the _hell_ is going on here, Crane?" she demanded.

Crane shook his head. "I don't even know where to begin, Lieutenant," he said hoarsely.

Abbie looked around her in desperation. The door they'd just exited was gone. Seven doors remained.

At that moment, the candlestick she'd thrown at the door rolled a little, hitting her boot with a gentle tap. Abbie leaned down and picked it up, giving it a curious once over. "This was real," she said slowly. "Everything else was a mirage, but this was real."

She turned the silver object over in her hand, examining it. Finally, she noticed an unevenness on the bottom of the candlestick. As if there was a false bottom to it. "Crane," she said, wiggling her fingers at him. "Do you have that pocketknife I gave you?" 

Crane still looked a little dazed, but he willingly enough reached into the voluminous pockets of his coat, rummaged a bit, and pulled out the Swiss Army knife she'd given him for his last birthday. With a quick, easy deftness, Abbie pulled out the knife blade and then gently used it to pry the bottom of the candlestick away from its cylinder. She reached her fingers up inside the candlestick and pulled out a rolled piece of yellow paper.

Crane finally had shaken off enough of the horrible shock he'd received to look vaguely interested in what the paper had to say. Abbie set the candlestick down and unrolled the piece of paper with shaky hands.

The paper, very simply, said: Sarah Crane. In the library. With the candlestick.

"That _fucker_ ," she breathed. "That god-damned fucker."

"Lieutenant?" Crane asked. "What is this? What the bloody hell is going on?"

Abbie looked down the hallway, her brain making a series of mental jumps and ending in a place she was very unhappy to reach. "We're playing Clue for real, Crane. Nine rooms in the board game. Six weapons."

Crane frowned, glancing at the silver candlestick. "So, the candlestick is a weapon?"

She nodded. "And the library is a room." She swore again. "Damn it. This fucker is going to have us relive a death in every room in the Clue game."

His frown grew larger and graver. "I only count seven doors remaining, Lieutenant."

Abbie set the candlestick down next to the porcelain vase that she'd warned Crane against seemingly a lifetime ago. "This hallway is room number nine, Crane."

He exhaled and gave her a short nod. Then, as only he could do, Crane shook off the anguish of the room they'd just left and looked with a calculating eye at the remaining seven doors. "Pick your poison, Lieutenant. Which door next?" He then paused and said wryly, "Unless poison is one of the weapons."

"No poison, Crane. Thank God. We've had enough of that for one lifetime." Abbie reached out and grabbed his hand in hers. "Not alone," she said, her voice rough and fierce. "You are not alone."

Crane inhaled a sharp breath and nodded curtly. "Neither are you, Lieutenant." He then gestured to the door on their left. "Shall we?"

Abbie closed her eyes for a moment before she nodded, stepped forward, and opened door number two.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was stuck on this for a bit, because I had one idea in my head of what room number two was going to be, and I wasn't enthusiastic about writing it. Amazing what happens when you choose a different room for room number two! It suddenly just all started flowing. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy their latest trouble! (Or is enjoy even the right word? LOL!)

It took Ichabod a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the much dimmer light in the room he and Abbie had just entered.

It was definitely much more modern than the library in his parents' estate in Scotland, based on the clothing the people littered throughout the room wore and the music of Duke Ellington providing a beautiful undercurrent.

Although he understood that no one could actually see Abbie or him, Ichabod did feel a slight unease walking into the low-lit tavern with its long bar stretched across one wall and the scattered pool tables peppering the beat-up planks of the wood floor.

He was the only white person in the room.

Abbie had tried, in the past, to explain to him a little about the segregation in the years before the Civil Rights movement, and there certainly had been plenty of that in his own era, but it was more than a little disconcerting to walk right into a tavern and discover that feeling for himself. Especially when he was holding Abbie's hand.

Abbie tightened her fingers around his, however, and leaned into him, saying softly, "You and I are stronger together than what anyone throws at us, Crane. Remember that."

He knew that. Deep down. But Ichabod still had a sudden amazing appreciation as to what Abbie, Miss Jenny and Captain Irving went through at many different points of their lives. The sensation of being an alien--of being foreign and out of place--as if you didn't belong and were unwelcome. His uneasiness grew despite his efforts. A restless time back then between the races of men.

"Don't," Abbie said softly, squeezing her hand around his. "Don't be afraid."

He could feel the pulse of her struggle. He could see the flashes of memories where she'd walked into all white rooms, trying to keep her head high and ignoring stares or feelings that she didn't fit in and wasn't wanted. Of pushing forward even when she was terrified. Of what they'd say. Of what they'd think of her. Of what they might do. Times when she hadn't had a tough enough skin to let the opinions roll off of her.

But she'd persevered. And despite everything it cost her, she'd thrown her lot in with him. And he'd been blessed beyond words as a result.

He'd go with his lady anywhere--with his head held high.

He tightened his hand in hers and leaned his head down to touch hers. "When I am with you, Lieutenant, there is no room for fear." He raised their entwined hands and kissed hers before he said softly, "I am proud to be yours, Abigail Mills. Always."

Abbie didn't say anything in reply, but her dark eyes were suspiciously shiny and he could feel through their linked hands her disquiet dispelling.

His sense of unease dispelled along with hers, and Ichabod turned to look around the room with a greater sense of interest.

Cigarette smoke gave the room a slight haze that the light from the colored glass lamps above the tables did little to penetrate. Various games were in the midst of being played. In fact, it appeared that every table had players. There were smiles and laughter from some, and more serious intent from others. Ichabod didn't recognize any of the people they passed as they walked into the room, even though he scrutinized the faces quite closely.

"Do you recognize anyone, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice quiet even though he was fairly certain that no one could hear him outside of Abbie.

Abbie exhaled and shook her head. "Not yet," she said. She gave a short little laugh that was not at all cheerful. "But I expect I'm gonna. This isn't exactly 18th century times, now, is it?"

"C'mon, Jake!" A cheerful shout rose above the din of the room. Both Ichabod and Abbie turned in that direction. "You've been staring at that ball for five minutes now. You really think your shot's gonna get any better by thinkin' about it so hard?"

Abbie tugged on Ichabod's hand and led him over to where Jake, as he was called, was contemplating the table as Ichabod might a particularly vexing passage he was trying to translate.

Pool, as he recalled, was a mere calculation of physics. Hit the ball at a certain angle with the cue at a certain velocity, and you could, with some accuracy, calculate its trajectory. In fact, he remembered that...

Abbie suddenly yanked her hand out of his, and Ichabod started in surprise, looking down at her with questions in his blue eyes.

"Sorry, no." She shook her head. "I listen to enough of that out loud." She raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm certainly not going to listen to it through telepathic mojo."

Ichabod pursed his lips at her, trying not to scowl. "Lieutenant," he protested.

Abbie merely waggled her fingers at him. "You go back in that big ol' head of yours and think whatever you want to think about the physics of pool. But there are some things I do not want to share with you."

He finally sighed and rolled his eyes. "Point taken," he grumbled.

Her lips twitched at his slight pout, which was, of course, his intention. But she'd managed to distract him from the physics of the game and turned his attention back on the player in question.

It was in that moment that Jake looked up from the table and stared straight at Ichabod.

Ichabod straightened a bit, taken aback at the focused stare of the man. Abbie's gaze darted between Ichabod and Jake, looking nervous.

"Can he see you?" she hissed.

"I don't know," Ichabod replied. He couldn't seem to drop the gaze of the man at the table. It was as if he was being seen through, studied and dissected.

"Hey, Roberts. You gonna make that play?" Jake's partner in play had grown beyond teasing into impatience. "I can't be here all night. My lady is waiting for me. She'll have my head if I'm here much longer."

A very old, world-weary look flittered through Jake Roberts' brown eyes. It was, Ichabod thought, the same sad pain lingering that he'd seen in his mother's face. As if he knew what was coming.

Ichabod darted a startled glance at Abbie, his rapid, eidetic memory suddenly pulling out Jake Roberts' name and throwing it at him, shrieking a warning.

"Jake Roberts," Abbie whispered. "Jacob Roberts. The pool hall. Oh, God."

Before Ichabod could say a word, the door through which they'd come burst open and a large group of men, fairly young but menacing-looking, came into the pool hall.

The pleasant chatter stopped, and everyone in the room focused on the door. Duke Ellington's music, so lively and tapping-your-foot good, suddenly seemed jarring in the otherwise silent gloom that had permeated the room.

Ichabod instinctively moved closer to Abbie, and she to him, sensing the danger in the swarthy-looking men who began to fan out in the room, blocking the exits. At the back of the group was a tall, dark-haired man with classic good looks. He slowly walked in, ignoring the frightened stares of those around him, and made his way directly toward Jake Roberts' table.

Ichabod could practically taste the evil that rolled off of the man. He had the look of many New York Italians he'd seen in the 21st century. And he knew that there had been a huge struggle between gangs of different ethnicities in New York during the 1950s. But Abbie had never mentioned any relative in a gang.

"Abbie?" he whispered.

Abbie's face was taut with tension as she stared, not at Ichabod, but at Jake.

"Where's my answer?" The tone was idle, coming from the Italian, but full of a menace that set Ichabod's hair on end.

Jake Roberts didn't speak. He no longer was staring in Ichabod's direction. Instead, he had turned his attention back to the table.

"The future, Roberts," he snarled. "I want my answer about the future."

Roberts continued staring at the balls on the table, ignoring the man. He then leaned down and lined up his cue.

And suddenly, it was as if time had slowed and everything was traveling in slow motion. The Italian reached into his pocket and pulled out a deadly looking switchblade. Ichabod couldn't even hear the screams around him.

Jake pulled back his cue and then hit the cue ball, which began a spiral toward the black 8-ball in the center of the table. At the same moment, the knife left the Italian's hand, spinning in a deadly spiral straight toward Jake.

Roberts straightened then, turning his attention not toward the knife but toward Ichabod. He met Ichabod's gaze with his own, gave him the slightest of smiles, just before the knife hit its target.

Abbie screamed then, and Ichabod reached out to grab her hand. The two of them joined the stampede toward the door, a madhouse of panic and fear. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jake fall to the floor just as the 8-ball he'd hit sank into the pocket he'd been aiming for.

Ichabod yanked open the door and pushed Abbie out ahead of him. The Italian, meanwhile, had pulled the knife from Roberts' body and threw it with impatient petulance toward the group trying desperately to get out. Ichabod dove, knocking Abbie to the floor just as the knife whirled through where she'd been standing a moment before.

He kicked the door closed and the knife fell to the ground, nicking the wall's fresh paint on the way down.

They were back again in the hallway, the door to the pool hall having vanished just as the one to the library had.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God," Abbie said, her breath coming out in panicked pants.

"Are you all right?" Ichabod demanded. He ran his hands over her body, his fear mixing with rage. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm...I'm fine."

Ichabod pulled her into his arms, squeezing her so tightly that she squeaked out a bit of protest. "Bloody hell," he whispered, loosening his grip enough to give her breathing room, but refusing to let go of her completely. "Bloody hell."

"He killed him. Right in fucking front of us," she said, her voice trembling with a rage he knew and felt himself.

"Jake Roberts is Jacob Roberts, yes?" Ichabod demanded. "From the genealogy?"

"My grandfather," Abbie said, closing her eyes. "I knew. I mean...I'd heard there'd been something about a pool hall and him dying there. But I never _knew_. My mother never told me about _that_." Her voice shook and when she breathed in, it was a sob. "He didn't even try to run," she whispered. "He didn't duck. Why? I don't understand."

"I don't understand either, Lieutenant," he said, running a soothing hand down her back. The motion was not only for her but for himself as well. To meet the man's gaze like that and then to watch the light go out of his eyes. Ichabod closed his eyes, willing his eidetic memory to fail him for once.

"What did he mean about the future?" Abbie asked as she tightened her arms around his waist, trembling as she did so. "And why could my grandfather see you when no one else could?"

"I don't know, Abbie. I wish to God that I did." Ichabod exhaled. "There has to be a pattern. Some message that someone is trying to get across to us here."

"First your mother, and now my grandfather." Abbie looked up at him. She'd taken a few deep breaths and put herself back together, piece by piece, and the warrior look was back on her beautiful face. "Someone knows too god-damned much about us and our history."

"And has access to unbelievable things, Lieutenant!" he said. "How can they replay those memories with such detail? Such accuracy?" He shook his head. "I realize, by the time period, that you never met your grandfather, but I can assure you that the library was exactly as I remember it to have been, and my parents..." He spread his hands out in front of him. "My God, Abbie. They were...it was _real_."

"Something supernatural, Crane. There's no other possible way." She finally stepped back from him, visibly working to compose herself. "Are we time traveling when we go through those doors?"

"I'd have said no," Ichabod began, "but it truly seemed as if your grandfather could see me."

"But your mother couldn't see either of us. And when you tried to grab her hand, your hand just fell through." Abbie frowned. "It feels like we're in a movie when we're there. Seeing and hearing but not being seen or heard ourselves." She tilted her head. "Is there some other way that my grandfather could have seen you? A vision, maybe?"

"That could be," Ichabod said. "But I do not know. We cannot be certain."

"I hate this," she said as she began to pace back and forth. "And we're only finished with room two, Crane. Seven more fucking rooms to go. I don't know if I can handle it. God."

"We'll find a way out, Abbie. We always find a way." Ichabod then pointed to the wall on each side where the room doors had previously been. "We're learning, though. We're seeing people we're connected to. People who have pieces of a puzzle. We may not have the picture on the top of the box, but we're getting the pieces." He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. "We will succeed in getting the picture, Abbie. We will."

"I'm sorry, Crane," she said, a heartbreaking look on her face. "I'm sorry to drag you here and put you through this. We could have been home watching Star Wars for the tenth time." She laughed a little, breaking into a sob at the end of it. "Instead, you're going through hell. Because of me."

"No," he said, his voice firm. Ichabod squeezed her hand as he said, "Even if I were to die here tonight..." She immediately opened her mouth in protest, but he laid a finger against her lips, silencing her. "Even then, Lieutenant, I would die a happy man. For I know now that you love me. For that, this weekend has been worth it. Every minute of it."

Abbie's eyes filled with tears as she whispered, "You're crazy."

"In love? Yes," he said softly.

She then wrapped her arms around him, and he immediately wrapped his around her. They stood that way for several moments, sharing comfort and love and working hard to pour strength into each other.

Finally, Abbie looked up at him, inhaled deeply, and asked, "Forward, Crane?"

He nodded shortly, and Abbie squeezed him once before she released him.

But she again grabbed his hand as she reached for the door nearest them and turned the knob.

With trepidation in both of their hearts, Ichabod and Abbie stepped through into room number three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know a whole lot about gangs in NYC in the 1950s. Just that there were a lot of them and they were usually based around a particular ethnicity.
> 
> I went back to watch the end of "Sanctuary" so that I could get Abbie Mills' family tree. And as I think I've mentioned in one of my other stories, there really is no possible way that there were were only five generations between Grace Dixon and Abbie Mills, even if you allow for later marriages and births (which would be very unlikely, especially in the 1800s). I'm just going to assume that there are some gaps there and the family tree is far from being complete.
> 
> But Jacob Roberts descends directly from Grace Dixon. And thus is important. :)
> 
> Any mistakes are all mine in this. Hope you enjoyed it anyway. :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the delay in posting more on this story! Life has really kind of run away with me. I don't know that it'll get better any time soon, but I am determined to finish this story at some point!!
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there with me! :)

The two seats at one end of the table continued to be empty.

It didn't seem to matter how many minutes went by on his wristwatch or how many times the large grandfather clock out in the hallway chimed.

There were still two empty seats at the end of the table.

Oliver took another sip of his coffee, frowning as he did so. The chatter between the four remaining players had been almost non-existent. Lily didn't seem to be a morning person, based on her grunted response to his "good morning", and James was definitely the quieter of the two. He had looked forward to some conversation with the Captain, who he'd found was rather talkative and interesting, but the Captain and his partner had remained stubbornly absent. Far past a reasonable time for them to eat breakfast.

The servants seemed to be uncaring about who was at the table and who wasn't. Of course, that had to be normal for any hotel, considering some people eschewed breakfast all together, and others slid in just before they stopped serving to grab a cup of coffee and half a bagel.

And considering the looks Captain Aureate and Miss Titian had been throwing each other all evening the night before, he'd be surprised if either of them had gotten much sleep. Perhaps they were just sleeping in and skipping breakfast.

He felt a hand on his arm, and he looked over at his wife, who was giving him a sympathetic smile. He huffed a little and sighed. "Yes, all right. It's a bit ridiculous, worrying about where they are. I realize that."

James and Lily both looked up at his words. James frowned. "You're worried about them, too?"

Oliver paused a moment, sliding a glance at the younger man. He waved a dismissive hand. "No. Well, not really." He grimaced. "I just think it's odd that they haven't joined us yet. The game is supposed to start up again soon, right? And yet..."

"Maybe they just overslept," Amanda offered. "They were..." she trailed off and then flashed a smile.

Lily, of course, perked up at this. She returned Amanda's grin. "I don't blame Grace one bit. He definitely has the tall, dark and handsome thing going on. Not to mention the British thing." She tilted her head and her eyes gleamed as she turned her gaze toward Oliver. "Grace and Amanda. Both very lucky girls."

"Thank you. I think," Oliver said dryly.

James rolled his eyes. "Must you say everything that comes into your head?"

"I don't," she replied as she took a sip of her coffee. Her lips quirked up into a grin again. "Probably best that you can't read my thoughts, brother dear. They'd probably frighten you."

"And that is the understatement of the year," he retorted before he turned his attention toward the couple across from him. "So now what?" He gestured toward the hallway where the grandfather clock started up with its chimes to indicate the nine o'clock hour. "Do we go on ahead without them?" He patted a purple envelope he'd placed next to his plate. "What if our next portion of the mystery includes them?"

"Maybe we can go knock on their door? See if they're coming?" Amanda asked, glancing from one to the other of them. "If they say no, then we can go ahead and start."

"Good plan," Lily said, nodding her approval. "I volunteer to remain here and finish my coffee."

"I'll go," Oliver said immediately. "I could stand to stretch my legs anyway."

As he rose from his chair, Amanda pushed hers back as well. "I'll go with you. I could stand to stop by our room and grab a sweater anyway. I'm a bit chilly." She raised an eyebrow at James and Lily. "Meet you all in the front hallway in about ten minutes?"

The brother and sister nodded, and Oliver and Amanda headed out of the room and up the stairs toward where they'd seen the Captain and Grace disappear to the night before. Once they were out of earshot range, Amanda leaned into her husband and whispered, "What's going on? Why are you so concerned about them?"

"There's something just _off_ about this whole weekend, Merry," he said quietly as they climbed the stairs. "It's not a normal mystery weekend. I think we were all picked specifically."

"Okay, I'll agree with that," she said as they reached the landing and then turned to head down the hallway toward the guest rooms. "But for what purpose?"

"James and Lily came here because of some sort of genealogical site, and Grace reminds me of someone, but I can't put my finger on who." Oliver pulled up in front of the Captain's room and rapped the door a couple of times before turning back to his wife. "But the thing that freaks me out the most is that the Captain is a dead ringer for that long lost turncoat uncle who defected to America during the Revolutionary War. The family scoundrel legend: Ichabod Crane."

Amanda raised both eyebrows at this. "Ichabod Crane?"

"There's been a legend in the family for years that Isaiah, his brother, insisted that Ichabod would return someday. And that anyone wanting to visit the estate from America should be given access to the property. He made it a condition of inheriting the estate."

"But if Ichabod Crane defected to America in the 1700s, he surely can't be alive today," Amanda pointed out. "What was the point of doing that?"

"I'm not saying he's alive," Oliver said as he rapped the door a second time. "But this man, this captain, is a dead ringer for the guy in the portrait that hangs in the hallway of the manor over in Scotland. And he dresses in colonial era clothes. There's something going on there. I don't know what, but I want to find out."

"If this man is related to Ichabod Crane," Amanda said slowly.

"Then he's related to me," Oliver said quietly.

Amanda squeezed his arm. "Oh, sweetheart."

"Another Crane," he marveled. "Think of that."

"Well, count me in for finding out for certain, my darling." She then paused and frowned at the door. "Unless, of course, the Captain prefers to remain asleep all day."

Oliver stared at the door for a few moments before he turned on his heel and began striding back down the hallway toward the stairs. Amanda hurried after him, and when she caught up to him, she asked, "What are you going to do now?"

"Get a key," he said in a low voice. "There's something wrong. Very wrong." He shook his head. "Don't ask me how I know. I just do. We need to get into that room."

Amanda stopped and stared, but her husband didn't break his stride as he reached the staircase. He looked up at her and gave her an impatient look. "You coming?" he demanded.

She huffed out a breath and then hurried after him, sweater forgotten. "What have we gotten ourselves into now?" she asked with a groan.

**Meanwhile...**

Abbie was very apprehensive as she stepped into the large open room. A long dining table spanned the length of it, with enough seating service for twenty people. Round pewter plates with an inverted square and compass design etched at the top of the plate were set at each place along with matching pewter tankards. The room would have had beautiful light streaming in from the outside except that the large floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with black heavy curtains.

Low, flickering torches littered the walls in strategic points around the room, highlighting the blood red color of the rug that spread underneath the long oak table and chairs.

Abbie half expected some of the characters from _Game of Thrones_ to enter the room and order people's heads cut off or something.

But for several minutes, the room remained empty.

Abbie watched Crane as he meandered around the room, making an attempt to pull the curtain away from the window (unsuccessfully) and to exit through the large double doors on the opposite end of the room (also unsuccessfully).

"It appears that whatever will happen will happen in this room," he commented as he returned to where she was standing, near the door in through which they'd come.

"That seems to be the M.O.," she agreed. At his frown, she said, " _Modus Operandi_." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me after years of hanging around cops that you haven't got that into your vocabulary yet."

"Of course I have, Lieutenant." He gave her a disapproving glance before he gestured toward the table. "That wasn't what I..." Whatever Crane was going to say was interrupted at that moment by the doors across the room opening. Several men in hooded robes entered in silence.

It was a little nervewracking to watch them file in. On the whole, the majority of them were shorter than Crane, some even as short as she was. The black robes looked as if they were made of some sort of expensive material--perhaps velvet. They filed in and each stood behind one of the chairs around the table, waiting until the final hooded figure entered and took his seat in the large, throne-like chair at the head of the table. Then, they all pulled out their own chairs and sat as well.

Crane had begun to circle the table, trying to get glimpses of the men who were seated around it. Abbie watched as he contorted himself trying to look at each man's face. She herself could see very little. The hoods, although not completely covering the men's faces, were pulled forward far enough to make it very difficult to even get a peek at them.

But considering that the twenty pairs of hands that rested on the table were all white, Abbie figured that it would be useless for her to imitate Crane and try to see who the people were. It was unlikely she'd recognize them anyway.

"Good evening, my brothers," the man at the head of the table said suddenly, breaking the silence and turning all the men's attention to him.

Abbie raised an eyebrow at Crane, who shook his head. No recognition of the voice, then.

"We are quite fortunate in that we have obtained what we have long sought."

At this, there began murmuring around the table, and a few exclamations of surprise could be heard over the din. The leader held up his hands and the din died down again.

"As you know, we were entrusted ten years ago by our commander and leader with a mission of such great importance that we have devoted all our resources and energy to procuring this valuable document." The leader nodded toward one of the men sitting about half way across the table.

This man pulled out a large leather-bound book and placed it on the table.

The book looked to Abbie rather similar to the elegant tomes that had graced the Crane family library. It wasn't brand-shiny new, but it wasn't old and crumbling either.

She looked over at Crane, whose fingers were twitching something fierce. His gaze was laser-focused on the book, and Abbie could tell he was itching to grab it away from the man to read it for himself.

"However did you find it?" one of the men demanded.

"Are you certain it is the real article?" another one immediately jumped in to add. "How many wild goose chases have we partaken in? Only to be led astray."

"The four who speak as one have confirmed it is hers."

Abbie's head shot up at the man's words. Crane had stiffened as if from a blow. "Crane," she said hoarsely, her own fingers now feeling the same twitch to get her hands on the book, if to do nothing else but destroy it. The contents of that book had talked men into nearly taking him from her before she'd barely had a chance to have him. And an angry thundercloud of a scowl was already crossing Crane's face. _God damned freemasons._

Crane didn't speak to her. Instead, he strode around the table, swiping angrily at each man sitting there, trying to dislodge their hoods, despite the fact that his hand fell through as if they were all a mirage. "Show yourselves," he yelled. "Which one of you? You called yourselves my brothers? Who stole her journal? How did you get it? By sending her to purgatory? Who helped those harpies bury my son alive?"

Crane brushed by her and Abbie felt the surge of his powerful, all-encompassing rage. She still wasn't used to it--this surge of his emotions arcing from him to her. He wasn't a stoic man by any means, but he usually hid his emotions behind his sarcasm and wit. If what she'd felt in the past few hours was any indication, Crane was a walking volcano, waiting to erupt. No wonder he was prone to these huge, temper-filled outbursts when circumstances overwhelmed him. She was having trouble not getting angry herself, just from the emotions he'd passed to her.

"Crane, that's not going to do any good."

He whirled on her, then, glaring at her, his blue eyes burning with a white-hot rage. "I don't care," he hissed. "Good God, Abbie. All that we had to go through. All of that hell. Because these men..."

"I know. I know," she said, trying to soothe him, but he wasn't hearing her. Crane reached and tried to grab the book, but his hand again fell ineffectually through it.

"Don't you already know what's in the book, Crane?" Abbie asked then, trying to distract him from his wild punches through the mirage around them. Seeing his fist go through the men at the table was disconcerting, to say the least.

He scowled at her. "No, Lieutenant, I do not. Do you remember so little? The one glimpse I have had of this journal was in Rutledge's hands. Right before he talked me into swallowing poison."

Abbie closed her eyes. She didn't have Crane's memory. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But she could see his face and how he'd looked that day. Every detail of the man--from his messy ponytail to the beads of sweat on his cheek. She'd wanted to memorize him in that moment. To carry him with her after he'd gone. To give herself something good to sear into her brain to stave off the pain of his leaving her.

And she hadn't even loved him then.

"One of the worst days of my life," she said hoarsely. "Don't ever do that again, Crane."

Crane paused and his face softened a bit, losing a little of its angry edge. "Lieutenant."

But before he could speak anymore, the door behind the leader of the group banged open, and a man rushed in, wearing breeches and little else. His long hair hung in disarray around his face.

"Richard!" The leader's voice was shocked. All the men around them rose to their feet. "What the devil is going on?"

"He sits among you. And he is not one of us. He knocked me out and stole my robe. He hides among you like the thief and criminal that he is!" Richard's face with its already purpling bruises were a stark testimony to the truth of his words.

"Who? the leader demanded. "Who has done such a thing?"

"He comes for one purpose only. To place his hands on the writing of Katrina Crane. To prevent our search for Captain Crane from coming to a successful conclusion."

The murmuring had started again in earnest at that point, the men at the table all looking back and forth at each other, trying to determine which of them had done it.

" _Ophidia in herba,_ " Richard spat out.

Abbie turned her gaze to Crane, an eyebrow raised.

"A snake in the grass" was Crane's reply. His eyes, however, had not moved from the man with the book. He had merely anticipated that she wouldn't know what Richard had meant and had supplied the answer as if she'd spoken the request aloud.

Their ability to read each other's minds--with and without touching--was awesome. In both the 21st century and the 18th century ways.

"Who _is_ it?" the leader demanded again.

Richard, in answer, stalked around the table, his seemingly solid figure walking straight _through_ Crane, much to his surprise, and heading toward the figure standing in front of the book. The man's fingers stroked the cover of the journal almost absentmindedly, ignoring the chaos around him.

Richard yanked off the man's hood, and there was a collective gasp around the table.

"Crane? Do you..." Abbie's voice trailed off as Crane shook his head, agonizing frustration on his handsome face.

"You have betrayed us. We bring out order from chaos. We do not send order _into_ chaos." Richard's words were harsh and angry.

The unmasked man seemed to be unaffected by Richard's words. "He will still come," he said quietly. "He and the rider."

The men's murmuring grew louder and more agitated as the man stood much like the eye of a storm in the midst of it all. Then, he raised his head and said in a low voice that didn't sound as if it could possibly be his own. It was almost a growl, and it set the hair on Abbie's arms on end. "You cannot fight what the Almighty has ordained. You search to eliminate a witness of God. You ally yourselves with witches. You have become the chaos you seek to eliminate."

Two men glanced over at the leader, who nodded once, and then they left the room together. A few moments later, they returned, holding a goblet brimming with liquid that looked all too familiar.

"Oh, God," Abbie said as the men on either side of the one with the book forced him to sit. She gave Crane a look of disbelieving horror. "Is this what it means to be a mason, Crane? Poison all your members?"

"No. This never happened in any meeting I ever attended," he snapped.

The man seemed to offer little resistance as the other men forced him to drink the liquid in the goblet, making sure that every drop went down his throat.

"I can't," she said, her voice a low moan. "I can't watch this. I can't." In a few short strides, she reached Crane and grabbed his hand. "I had to watch you do it once. I can't live through it again. I just can't."

Crane squeezed her hand with his as he followed her toward the door on the opposite side of the room. The two of them tried valiantly to block out the choking gasps of the man dying behind them. Abbie pressed down the latch and pushed open the door. Within a few moments, they found themselves back in the hallway again, one door less around them.

Abbie turned, then, and wrapped her arms around Crane, comforting herself with the feel of his solid muscle underneath her. He was still here. He was hers and he was still here.

"Abbie," he said softly.

"You had your moment of panic, Crane. This is mine." Abbie's hold around his waist was tight and fierce.

She could feel another surge of his emotion. But this time, it was gratitude. Gratitude for her. For all they'd been through together and survived. For everything she meant to him.

Abbie rested her head against his chest. "I knew you were my everything," she whispered. "Even back then. I knew."

He hugged her back in another one of those hugs that made her feel cocooned in safe, warm love. "As did I, Lieutenant. As did I."

The two of them stood that way for a long time. Minutes passed, and Abbie felt no compulsion to break away. Whoever this sick bastard was could throw all he wanted at them. Hell, purgatory, death, destruction, it didn't matter. As long as they were together, they could overcome anything. _Anything._

She then felt his chest rumble. She thought, at first, he was speaking, but then she realized that what it was was a chuckle. She looked up then, a frown on her face. "What?" she demanded. "What could possibly be funny right now?"

Crane grinned down at her. "You told me there was no poison in the weapons." At her blank stare, he prodded her. "You know...in the game? No poison."

She stared at him for a moment before her gaze turned thoughtful. "You're right. There isn't."

"Why do you suppose the change was effected?" he asked. "Could there be some meaning to this?"

She paused and thought before she nodded. "Could be. It could just be."

"And the other deaths..." he asked. "Those weapons...?"

"Part of the game. A candlestick, a knife, a wrench, a lead pipe, a revolver and a rope."

He wrinkled his face. "All very unpleasant deaths. Massive damage to the cranium, a bullet, a knife's wound or strangulation."

"Nothing about death is pleasant, Crane."

"Having done it once, I would have to agree with that, Lieutenant," he said wryly.

"Let's not do it again, shall we?" Abbie finally let him go with a squeeze and then turned to look at the other doorways. "Well? What hell should we pick next?" she asked.

Crane looked about him, considering each door in turn. "Let's try mixing things up. Perhaps a change in strategy will help us."

"A change in strategy. Good call," she said.

And as if one, the two of them walked to the door at the end of the hallway, opposite from where they'd entered. Abbie glanced up at Crane and held out her hand. "Ready, Captain?" she asked.

He took her hand in his, sending a wave of intense love through her, bathing her in its light and power. "Ready, Lieutenant."

And with those words, Crane opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this just now, I hadn't realized that I'd given James Amethyst and Lily Ivory pseudonyms that were very Harry Potter-esque. Heh. So the James and Lily was not intentional. But if you're a Harry Potter fan, enjoy it anyway. ;)


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